


What it Takes To Pass a Bill

by Midnigtartist



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, WAAAAAAY later tho, so many feels, that's later tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-07-26 19:20:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 45,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7586704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnigtartist/pseuds/Midnigtartist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The amount of work it takes to get a bill on the congress floor is appalling, even for someone as astute and persuasive as Alexander Hamilton. He only need as handful of signatures now, unfortunately, one of those happens to be Jefferson's. Hamilton had a feeling that getting it wouldn't be easy, but he's never imagined it would lead him here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First of All, FUCK YOU

**Author's Note:**

> AHHHHH! Okay so this took so fucking long to write, all together this is the longest ANYTHING that I've ever written. I have too many Jamilton feels like, jesus, just nail me into a coffin. ANYWAY! I'm gonna try to update it once a week. I hope y'all enjoy!!!

Thank god the door to Jefferson’s office is unlocked, it saves Hamilton the trouble of standing there and politely knocking, which he hates. The Treasury Secretary has a habit of walking right into closed doors, not getting them open all the way in his seemingly unending excitement. Open doors tend to serve him a lot better. Without a pause in his steps, Alexander strides purposefully into the Secretary of State's spacious office and slams down a rather lengthy legal document on the polished desktop. Jefferson, who sits in the overly cushy swivel chair, stares up at the brunette over his interlocked fingers.

His expression is clearly one of controlled annoyance. “Are all New Yorkers this blatantly tactless or is it just you?” he drawls in a smooth southern accent. Alexander glares down at him, his own rage bubbling very close to the surface, and they’ve not been in the room together from more than a minute.

It’s not his fault, he thinks, though there were probably more delicate ways to handle the situation. It’s obviously Jefferson’s. With his perfectly tailored suits and expensive calougue, letting everybody know that he’s better in every conceivable way. It’s his haughty tone of voice, his withering stares that never fail to set Hamilton off. That, and the fact that he’s actually, frustratingly, undeniably attractive. From his fine, dark curls that frame his face just right, down to the arrogant smirk that pulls at his full lips. He’s gorgeous, and it’s infuriating beyond imagination. Perhaps in another life, he’d try to pursue something with the southern, at the very least a one night stand, but as it stands, every time Jefferson opens his mouth, all he can fantasize about is punching him squarely in his perfect teeth. Most attraction is covered by outrage and the two can continue working together in mutual loathing, which suits Hamilton just fine. Except for now.

“Just sign it.” he all but growls out, jabbing his finger at the thick document.

It’s a bill Alexander’s been feverishly trying to push through the legislative system for a month now. He’s gotten a great deal of the signatures he needs, mostly by using his special form of persuasion. Listing the one hundred and thirty seven absolutely valid reasons of how and why his bill is beneficial until he wears down any opposition. Unfortunately on Jefferson, who can keep verbal and intellectual pace with him step for step, this method is utterly useless. He was hoping a show of assertion would sway the backwards minded Virginian, but no such luck it would appear.

Carefully, callously, Jefferson takes the corner of the document between his thumb and fore finger and peels back the first page. “And what might ‘it’ be, Hamilton?”

“You know exactly what it is.” Alexander snaps back, hands fisting at his sides. “You’re one of the last signatures I need. Just sign it so I can go. ” he almost says please, but to Jefferson it would sound like begging and there’s no way in fresh hell that he would ever beg to this elitist asshole.

Jefferson leans back in his chair, smoothly, without the low squeal of protest Alexander’s gives every time he shifts in it. One hand grasps the arm of the chair lightly, elegant fingers bent over the edge. His face comes to rest in the palm of the other, all the while he fixes Alexander with an almost bored look, like this is too easy. Blood pumps holty in the burnette’s ears. “Get me some coffee.” Jefferson says it with such dismission in his voice that one would think Hamilton’s the help.

“What!? No way, go fuck yourself.” Alexander exclaims, throwing any previously notions of civility out the window.

And there it is, there’s that cocky smirk, the one that displays the southerner’s prominent canines. ”Fine” With precision, Jefferson uncrosses his legs and interlocks his fingers in his lap. “Then get down and suck my cock.”

Hamilton can _feel_ the color drain out of his face. His cheeks pale, his mind actually stalls for once at the completely blunt, vulgar command. “Wha-?!”

“You want your shitty little piece of legislation signed, right? Well if you won’t get me coffee then you can suck me off. God knows we could all use a break from your incisive chatter.”

As quickly as it fled, heat comes rushing back to Alexander’s cheeks, his whole face, neck to hairline burning vivid red. He ground his teeth together so tightly he can hear them creaking. “Sick bastard.” he spits

“I’ve been called much worse before.” Jefferson winks, fucking winks and stretchs his smile a little wider. “Come on Hamilton, that big brain of yours must be able to come up with more creative insults then that.”

Hamilton feels, too hot, and like he’s seconds away from throwing himself over the desk and throttling the fucker. But he won’t get that signature if Jefferson’s dead, so. He should have expected a dirty trick like this, he’s worked with Jefferson too long not to have seen something like this coming, and with murder off the table, that leaves Alexander with only two options. Though, one of them really isn’t an option at all. Damnit, the bastard left him no choice. He lets his hands clench and unclench a few times, trying to work out the tension before he does or says anything that could hurt his already microscopic chances of getting this bill past the southern motherfucker.

“Fine, I’ll get your fucking coffee, you backwards asshat.”

Jefferson cocks an eyebrow, expression turning smug. “See, that one was much better.”

With a huff that sounds like air being let out of a tire, Alexander turns on his heel so sharply he’s surprised he doesn’t tear up some carpeting, and marches towards the door.

“Make it a decaf soy with an extra shot and cream, please.” calls after him, voice practically dripping with glee.

Hamilton doesn’t even pause on his way out, just shouts. “Fuck you, you're getting whatever’s in the break room.” over his shoulder.

He stomps to the elevator, heat rolling off of him in waves. Jabs the call button too hard, bending his finger back uncomfortably and storms inside once the doors open. The elevator is empty, how very lucky for him. He can pace as much as he wants. A hand unconsciously winds into his ponytail, loosening it and allowing some flyaway hairs to fall free as he paces, feet pounding the linoleum. It’s one coffee, Alexander tells himself, one stupid coffee for a stupid legislator. The good that bill will do is worth being Jefferson coffee boy just this once. By the time the elevator dings and the sleek doors slide open, he settled to a low simmer, annoyance bubbling slow and steady. The Secretary of Treasury slinks sullenly into the break room, where a few others are eating a lunch so late that it should be criminal to even consider it lunch anymore, and makes a beeline for the espresso machine. You’d think a government facility could spring for an actual barista. Regardless, Alexander grabs one of the insulated to go cups off the rack and drops it under that appliance head. He fills it up with espresso, cream, sugar, and briefly he contemplates spitting in it, but he read somewhere that snakes have sensitive tongues so Jefferson would probably be able to taste it if he did. So begrudgingly, he snaps on the lid and leaves, trugging back to his rival’s office with the coffee burning pleasantly in the palm of his hand.

He gets back to Jefferson’s office just as the man comes striding out, long legged strut boasting every one of those six inches he has on Alexander. When he sees Hamilton he grins, looking very much like the cheshire cat, and leans against the wall. “Well,took you long enough.” Alexander shoves the cup into the man’s dark hands.

“There’s your fucking coffee, now hurry up and sign my bill.”

“I would love to...” the taller of the two replies, grin still holding while he sips his coffee. “But I have a meeting.” with that, he brushes past Alexander gracefully.

“What?!” he’s rooted to the spot for only a moment before he’s racing down the hall after Jefferson. He practically has to jog to keep up. Seriously, fuck tall people. “You said you’d sign it if I got your coffee you ass!”

Jefferson doesn’t make his pace more accommodating for Hamilton. “No, what I said was, ‘if you want your shitty little piece of legislation signed, you’d get me coffee’. It’s all about phrasing Hamilton , surely you know that.” he takes another sip of his drink and pulls a face. Alexander hopes he chokes on it. “Really Hamilton? Only two sugars, are you trying to kill me?” The hallway is deserted enough that he could punch Jefferson in the throat and no one would know.

Apparently sensing his hostility, the taller man sighs and stops, turning to face his seething companion. “I’m going to sign your stupid bill eventually, I am a man of my word above all things, but I’m already running late waiting for you. Consider the matter tabled for now.”

“When?” Alexander’s fists clench. “When are you going to sign it?”

Jefferson waves a long fingered hand dismissively. “Eventually. In the meantime, be a doll and run this memo down to Lee for me.” he produces a neatly folded letter from his pocket and holds it out to Hamilton with a flourish.

Play nice, Alexander reminds himself as he takes the note, his glare burning holes in Jefferson’s skull. Don’t crumple it up, don’t rip it in half, you need his signature. It's just one more petty errand. Breath.

Knowing he’s won, Jefferson flashes him a smile that’s all teeth, then turns to continue down the hall. “I’ll see you around Hamilton.” “You bet your ass you will” Alexander mutters under his breath, watching Jefferson until he rounds the corner.

Then, with a sigh far more dramatic than warranted, Hamilton retraces his way back, past Jefferson’s office in the direction Lee’s. It’s not a far walk and the man in question is actually loitering outside it when Hamilton gets there. He feels his stomach roll. After Jefferson of course, Lee is the most obnoxious person he knows.

“Hey Lee-” he holds out the letter at arms length, childishly leaving as much space between them as possible to ensure a quick escape. “Memo from Jefferson.”

Lee glance up from his phone only long enough to grab the note. “Oh, thanks Hamilton.”

Well that was far less painful than he expected. Not wanting to linger himself, Alexander turns tail and makes for the elevator to his own office. He’ll gather his things and wait for Jefferson in the lobby, he’ll camp the door if he has to, he’s not leaving without signing that bill.

“The hell you start running Thomas’ errands?” comes Lee’s, honestly irritating voice from over his shoulder.

“Have a good evening Lee.” somehow he can still manage to make the farewell sound cordial through gritted teeth.

Too bad Lee’s an ass, though.

“Holy shit” Alexander can hear Lee’s feet pounding after him.

Fuck

The man has the most shit eating grin plastered on his face when he catches up. “Are you Jefferson’s bitch now?”

Goddamnit

Hamilton does his best to keep his eyes glued froward. And, Lee is laughing now. “So, did he finally bend you over his desk and shove his foot up your ass?”

“My foot’s gonna connect with your ass in about ten seconds if you don’t fuck the hell off.” Alexander spits.

“This is fantastic.”Lee chuckles, allowing Hamilton to step into the elevator alone.

Once inside he slams his head back against the mirrored wall. Now by tomorrow everyone in the building will think he’s Jefferson’s call boy.

_Fucking fantastic_

He rides the elevator two floors down to his office, quickly shoves the necessary papers haphazardly into his satchel, then it’s back in the elevator, riding the rest of the way down to the ground floor. He finds a stiff chair by the door, facing the lift and plops into it, ready to catch that arrogant bastard on his way out. The minutes trickle by. Hamilton tries to type up a few lines for his next speech but he pauses so often to look up at the elevator that he hardly gets anything done. With an exhausted sigh, he slumps down in his seat and checks the time on his phone. It’s nearing seven, Jefferson went to his meeting at five thirty. He runs a hand over his face and simultaneously punches in his password, preparing to send a text to Laurens to let him know that he’ll probably be late.

[Hey, I’m might be a few minutes late tonight. Have some business I’m hoping to wrap up before I go. Just chill in the car I’ll be rig]

“HEY!” Suddenly Alexander’s cell is being pulled from his hand by none other than the dark eyed devil himself. “Give me my phone you gigantic souther dick!” he leaps from his chair and makes a vicious swipe for the phone, but Jefferson holds it high above his head. Seriously, _fuck tall people._

“Oh you'd like that wouldn't you.” the Virginian winks down at him and Alexander’s whole face flushes red as the implications of his own words sink in.

Jefferson starts tapping away at his captive phone. Alexander lunges for it again and again, it's pulled from his reach. “Seriously Jefferson, give me my fucking phone back!”

“Oh hush, I’m just putting my number in your phone so it’s easier to get a hold of you.”

Hamilton huffs, jumping around only succeeds in making him look like a fool so he instead crosses his arms tightly over his chest, all but willing the taller man to drop dead. It's not an uncommon thought.

After a minute, Jefferson folds his cell back into his hands, letting his fingers linger in a way that makes Hamilton infuriatingly nervous. Then he flashes him a devious smile. “You have a good night Hamilton.”

“Sign my bill.” he resorts.

Jefferson straightens, clearly bored with the direction their verbal sparring is headed. “Later, I’m headed home for the night, and very rarely do I mix business with pleasure.” he strides towards the doors, which slide open from him with a swish. “See you tomorrow I’m sure.”

Hamilton counts ten mississippi in his head before he deems it safe to leave, god forbid he run into Jefferson on his way to his car. The cool night air helps him to settle a little. He can see Laurens’ car idling on the other side of the lot, fading headlights burning dully in the twilight. He hurries across the parking lot and slides inside, breathing out a sigh of relief at the familiar smell printer paper and that shitty pine scented air freshener that hangs limply from the rearview mirror. He and Laurens split rent in a cramped loft apartment in DC so it only make sense that they carpool as well. The slightly younger man swings by after leaving his attorney's office everyday. Once the car door is slammed shut, Hamilton practically melts into the seat.

Laurens shoots him a concerned look from behind the wheel. “Damn Alex, what took you so long?”

Alexander lurches forward and slams his head against the glove compartment. “Holy shit Laurens, you’re not going to fucking believe the day I’ve fucking had....”


	2. Alexander and Curious Case of the Over Priced Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jefferson seems to find this whole situation quite amusing, unfortunately for Alexander...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you guys sooo much! I've gotten nothing but sweet, supportive comments for this fic, which is awesome cause I'm always a little unsure of my writing, but you guys seem to be enjoying. Huge thanks to Ham-For-Ham on Tumblr for beta reading this chapter!

The next morning Alexander awakens promptly at five thirty like always, groaning and burying his head deeper into his pillow. Once he manages to get his eyes to stay open, he rolls onto his side and reaches for his phone on the bedside table, snaking his arm out of the cocoon of blankets he’s formed around himself. He means to turn off the alarm before it can even go off. He’d set the tone to something so obnoxious that  he actually trained himself to wake up before it, just so that  blaring sound isn’t the first thing he hears every morning. When he clicks on the screen however, he’s surprised to see that he has a text. That surprise quickly melts into irritation when he sees that it's from Jefferson, or, as the contact id says, TJeffs <3\. 

It’s too goddamn early for this. Hamilton slides the message open with his eyes closed, willing it to all be dream. But he rarely gets so lucky. The ‘TJeffs <3’ conversation has only two messages in it so far, one blue, one gray. The first one is from last night, when that bastard had swiped his phone. 

[ Hamilton is a jackass]

He rolls his eyes. 

The message beneath that is only  few minutes old. 

_ [Morning Hamilton! I was just thinking, how wonderful it would be to chat about your little bill over some coffee. Quad Grande, Non Fat, Extra Hot Caramel Macchiato Upside Down. Don’t mess it up. - T. Jefferson] _

He actually isn't sure which annoys him more, the obnoxious drink order or the fact that Jefferson text like an asshat, signing his name like it's a fucking legal correspondence. Hamilton quickly opens up Jefferson’s  contact information and changes ‘TJeffs <3’ to ‘asshole’. It’s immature, sure,  but it makes him feel a little better. Then, because there’s nothing to do laying in bed, he throws the covers from his body and climbs out. Sleepy, he trudges over to his closet in the dark, pulls out the suit closest to the front and slings it over his arm. He’s sure he wore  this exact suit on the same day last week but, he doubts anyone will notice. He grabs out a faded green tie that won't look horrible with it, then exits his room. 

There's a short hallway connecting the bedrooms to the main hub of the apartment, then there’s the living room and connected to that is the kitchen and the one bathroom. It’s not much space wise, but it’s nice and heat works in the winter. Alexander doesn’t need that much space anyway, he’s  _ the live in a shoebox  _ type. As he step into the living room Laurens sticks his head out of the kitchen, where the smell of toaster waffles and fifteen minute bacon wafts. 

“Morning.”

“Mornin” Alexander grumbles in response

The freckled man smirks, easily able to read his friend’s sour expression . “Seriously?Jefferson this early in the morning?”

Hamilton scoffs, headed in the direction of the bathroom. “Who fuckin else.”

  
  


Jefferson is lucky Hamilton needs coffee to function. The man stays up all night writing and then is up again in the early hours of the morning. And while his energy is seemingly endless his chipper attitude is not. He needs at least two cups of searing hot coffee before he gets that spring in his step that drives everyone crazy. Which is why he and Laurens stop by starbucks everyday before work. 

Hamilton shuffles up to the counter, where a fairly pretty young lady with dark hair streaked with red stands. She’s got multiple piercings in her ears and a look the clearly says ‘I’m here from college cash’, but her tone is polite at least. 

“Hi, how can I help you this morning?” 

“Hi-” he greets the girl quickly, pulling his cell from his pocket. “One large coffee, black and-” he squints at the screen, reading back Jefferson's absurd order. “- one quad grande, um, non fat-  extra hot-  caramel-  macchiato upside down, please...”

The girl gives him the most withering look. “Uhhu, and will that be all?”

“Yes, I’m so sorry.” he mumbles, feeling like a jackass for holding up the line. He also grabs the receipt because like hell if he’s not getting reimbursed for that nearly fourteen dollar coffee.  Behind him, Laurens chuckles under his breath. 

Well at least someone finds it funny. And of course Jefferson has to have the most complicated, annoying drink order in the world, full of sugar and foam and other crap. Alexander has to have his coffee black, sugar just makes him hyper, it does nothing for his focus. 

It takes much longer than normal to get their order because of Jefferson's love of carmel, and Hamilton is jogging into work later then he would like,  hair in desperate need of being redone and sporting a tray of caffeinated beverages. He jabs the elevator call button with his left hand and waits, foot taping. It arrives moments later with a ding and just as he steps inside someone shouts ‘Hold it!” so he sticks out his leg to stop the door from closing, allowing Angelica Schuyler to slip in after him. 

The oldest Schuyler sister works in PR, which makes a lot of sense. She’s pretty and well spoken and very good at her job. 

“Thanks Alexander.” she says, fixing her skirt before looking over at him. She eyes the two coffees. “Who’s the friend? Certainly Mulligan wouldn’t order something so- much.”

Alexander sighs, which turns to a weary chuckle at the end. “Nothing slips past you, does it Ms. Schuyler. If you must know, it’s for Jefferson.”

Her inquisitive dark eyes fill with mirth and instantly he regrets telling her, though she’d have gotten it from him eventually. She presses her lips into a thin line before saying. “Soooo...”

Alexander whines. “Don’t say it.”

“Say what?”

“That I’m Jefferson’s bitch, General Asshat Lee already beat you to it.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say at all.” She quips goodnaturedly. “I was just going to ask if you all made it official yet.”

Heat concentrates in his cheeks. “Made what offical?!”   
Angelica wave her hand in a ‘nevermind all that’ motion. “You, and Thomas, you know, official. I’m quite curious, I do  have some money riding on it.”

His jaw goes slack, he almost drops the coffees. “There is NOT and office poll on us. No way. Me and Thomas fucking Jefferson. Bullshit.”

She laughs, a light melodious noise like that sounds like a well tuned piano. “Of course there isn’t. There is one to see which of you kills the other first, though.”

“Good to know.” He mumbles, oscillating waves of relief and embarrassment rolling over him. Is it really so out of left field to think that he and Jefferson couldn’t be an item? He shakes the thought from his head, it's just the lack of caffeine and a certain old money jackass talking. The second he sees Jefferson he’ll remember why it's such a bad idea. 

The elevator doors slid open. 

“This is me.” Angelica says,stepping off the lift. “See you around Alexander.”

He tips his head in farewell. “Have a good day Ms.Schuyler.”

He bypasses his office entirely, heading straight up to see the asshole of the hour. His office door is wide open like usual so Hamilton invites himself in. Jefferson is typing away at his desk when he entiers. 

“Here.” he drops the expensive coffee and receipt on the State Secretary's desk.

Jefferson arches brow, looking particularly smug this morning and Hamilton can only imagine what fresh forms of torture he has cooked up. One thing seems certain however, he has no intention of handing over his jonh handcock. 

Dammit all. 

“Well good morning to you too.” Jefferson says sweetly, all the while leering devilishly up at him. 

Alexander steels himself for whatever demeaning task the southern has lined up for him today. It's pointless, if Jefferson’s smirk means anything, but he still asks regardless. “Are you going to sign my bill now?”

Jefferson swivels his chair around, spinning to face opposite of him. “I actually have something for you to do first.”

“Of fuckin course you do.” the Secritary of Treasury mutters under his breath. 

When he turns back around, the taller of the two has a large, rather heavy look box in his hands, filled with files and papers. He heaves it up onto the desk. “I’m gonna need you to sort these for me.” He glosses a long finger over the rim of the box. “Old legal documents I’ve been meaning to clean up for ages but, you know how busy we get around here.”

“Yeah, I do.” Alexander manages through clenched teeth. Why the hell is he putting himself in these blood boiling situations again? “I’m not your slave Jefferson. You can’t keep jerking me around forever”

The other man rolls his eyes dramatically. “Obviously. You're more like an indentured servant, I mean, you are working for an eventual payout.”

When he sees that Alexander still looks about ready to beat him over the head with that box he sighs, finally letting the cocky smirk fall from his mouth. “Trust me, it’s not going to last forever. I’m prone to kill you myself if I keep this up much longer.”

“I’m sure there’s some money riding on that...” Alexander mumbles

“What?” he snaps.

“What?Nothing.” Alexander responds, shoving his hands into his pockets

Jefferson narrows his eyes at the disheveled man standing before him. “Whatever. Just go through these and we’ll see how generous I’m feeling at the end of the day.”

Hamilton huffs, his gaze just below murderous, but gathers the overflowing box of papers into his arms regardless. “Fucker.” he shoots, before staggering out of his office under the weight of all those files. 

“Bye bye to you too darling.” Jefferson coos sickly. 

Just as Hamilton rounds the corner of his door out of sight, Madison turns in from the other direction. He pauses for a moment to watch the other go, brows drawn together as he does, then comes the rest of the way in. 

“Was that Hamilton I saw just now?” he inquires

Jefferson starts to type away at his computer again, holding the tip of his tongue tightly between his teeth. “Mmhmm,”

James settle in the seat opposite him across the desk. “What did he want?”

He rolls his eyes. “He wants me to sign this crappy bill of his.”

“Did you?” 

‘Not yet.” Thomas’ eyes dart over the screen rereading the last sentence he’s wrote, decides it sounds like utter garbage and deletes the whole thing. 

Madison leans forward. “What do you mean ‘not yet’. Don’t tell me you’re actually considering-”

Jefferson waves the other’s concerns away  like foul smelling smoke. “It’s harmless, even if he can get it on the floor, and get all the votes. Besides, I already told him I would. “

“Then why did he just leave here with a dusty box full of files?”

Jefferson smirks. “I’ve been having my own fun with it, yanking Hamilton all over for this thing. It’s hilarious to see him do what he’s told for once.” When he glances over at James, his friend has a disapproving look on his face, bordering on concerned. “What?”

Madison presses his lips together tightly. “Are you sure that’s sure a good idea Thomas?”

He quirks an eyebrow questioningly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, is it really such a good idea to keep playing Hamilton like this? You two already have a strained relationship and I don’t know how much more tension it can take.”

“Please James.” he turns  pointedly back to his laptop. “I can take care of myself.”

“If you say so...”

  
  
  


Hamilton is about ready to slice open his wrists or Jefferson throat with his letter opener, either way, blood will be shed. He’s so frustrated that he can’t even speak,  so he does the only other thing he can do. And that’s work. 

He plows through the box of dated documents in no time flat and keeps going from there. With vigor, he pounds out that speech he’s been working on the past few days, fingers flying over the keys in a frenzie. The words seem to flow freely now as he grits his teeth and types feverishly, fueled by his defiance. And then he has conferences and meetings all afternoon. He can hardly focus, utterly consumed by thoughts of Jefferson.There has to be  _ something _ he can do to stop the statesmen’s ridiculous requests.  He spends the time he should be using to scratch out notes, and instead formulates a plan to beat the bastard at his own game. If he performs all his tasks with such annoying, over the top exuberance, the Virginana will give him exactly what he wants just to get away from him.  Honestly, it’s not the most intuitive plan he’s ever formulated but, like Jefferson said, he’s bound to kill him if this arrangement last much longer. The man only has so much patients. That’s why he almost smiles when he gets a text from the man in question, telling him to go pick his dry cleaning and drop it off at his home.   

Laurens is more then happy to give him a lift. The two pick Jefferson laundry, laughing at a piercing magenta suit that's tucked in among the black and navy ones. Seriously, where would you ever wear something so offensive to the eye? From there, it’s only a ten minute car ride to the house Jefferson rents in DC. It’s a damn nice townhouse and no doubt he owns the whole thing. Plastic wrapped suits slung over his arm, Alexander approached the door and knocks fast and hard, making his knuckles bite sharply against the wood. There’s silence, so he knocks again, and  again. The breaks between his knocks grow shorter, even when he hears the shuffling of feet from the other side he continues to pound the door until it’s wrenched open, leaving his fist hanging in the open air. 

When Jefferson emerges in the doorframe, wearing his dress pants, deep purple button up with the first three buttons undone, and a scowl.

Perfect.

“God damn, you’re annoying.” The taller man huffs.

A hot spike of irritation shoots though Hamilton, but he holds his polite smile tightly in place. “I picked up that dry cleaning just like you asked, wasn’t any trouble at all.”

Jefferson give him a wary look as he carefully takes the cloths from his arms. “Right...”

Perhaps he’s milking the enthusiasm just a bit. “Anyway, I was thinking, since I’m here, why don't we go inside and discuss that bill you’ve been meaning to sign.”

“You know, I’d really rather not.” Jefferson makes to close the door, while fixing Alexander with an, almost uncomfortable look.

“Really? Because there aresomethingsI’dliketodiscuss-!”

“Goodnight Hamilton.”with that the door is tightly shut.

Grinning, Alexander whips around on the stoop and shoots Laurens, who’s waiting in the car, a double thumbs up.

The night just gets better from there. He and Laurens pick up a pizza on the way home and spend the rest of the night watching old tv sitcoms on netfix and drinking beer. Apparently his plan worked better than he’d anticipated, because around nine thirty, Hamilton receives a text from Jefferson, saying that he’s  _ ‘about to look over that shitty bill’ _ . He hadn’t felt this content in months.  He polishes off the rest of the pizza, showers, and tidies up his speech before hopping into bed around midnight, looking forward to an actually restful night for once. By tomorrow, he’ll be collecting the last of those signatures, the whole process promising to go much smoother when he’s boasting Jefferson’s seal of approvel on the legislation. As much as he hates to give the man any credit, especially when it comes to politics, he has to admit that he has influence in circles that even Hamilton has trouble infiltrating. One more day of dealing with the uppity southerner, he tells himself as he sinks deeper into the bedsheets. One more day.

 

It’s not his alarm that wakes Hamilton up. No, he knows that sound, the ear piercing wail of it. It’s the low but consistent buzzing of his cell phone on the nightstand that pulls him from sleep. Groaning into his pillow, Alexander slowly rolls himself to his other side, willing his eyes to open. The buzzing continues, phone vibrating against the wood of his nightstand urgently. Still practically asleep, he reaches over for it, turning it over to read the screen that's too bright compared to the previous darkness of the room. There are three long winded messages from the contact. ‘Asshole’. 

“Fuck’ he whines, the sound muffled by the thick sheets of his bed. 

The text are extensive rants about his bill, which Jefferson apparently took upon himself to proof. Just as he finishes reading the old messages, that do nothing but insult Alexander’s work, a fourth comes rolling in.

_ [And did you even read the third page of this because the whole thing sounds like you wrote it with half a brain, and let's be honest, you weren’t working with that much before.] _

Even as lethargic as he is, the comment stirs the dying embers of loathing in his chest, pumping dull heat through his whole body. With one hand, he types out a slow, clunky response. 

[Seriously Jefferson its three in the morning can we do this tomorrow]

Three dots appear at the bottom of the screen, before-

_ [No, fuck you I want to talk about it now.] _

Hamilton whines, pressing his face into his pillow. A second later his cell vibrates in his hand. Jefferson is apparently a very quick texter because one long message after another come pouring in in quick succession. 

_ [The second clause on the fifth page is just offensive to my intellect, don’t worry I’ll revise it for you. ] _

_ [If you honestly think that's a solution to the huge blunder you made in the first paragraph then you’re an idiot] _

_ [How the hell did you manage all these signatures with this atrocious rhetoric? Honestly, did anyone read this?] _

_ [I can see what you’re going for with the sixth page but honestly, the ideas are presented so sloppily that I’m actually surprised that no one mentioned anything. That, or you’re just too bull headed to admit you could possible write something so ineloquent. ]  _

[Jefferson stop I dont have unlimited texting]

For a moment the buzzing stops and Alexander wonders if the Virginian is actually taken consideration for the situations of others for once in his life. But then-

_ [A] _

_ [L] _

_ [E] _

_ [X} _

No

_ [A] _

_ [N] _

_ [D] _

“Fuuuuuuuck” He whails, watching in horror as Jefferson continues.

_ [E] _

_ [R} _

“Noooo!” he’s helpless to stop the onslaught of single letter texts.

_ [H] _

_ [A] _

_ [M] _

_ [I] _

Why does his name have to be so fucking long!?

_ [L] _

_ [T] _

[Jefferson stop!]

_ [O] _

_ [N] _

[Seriously knock it off!!!]

The next couple messages are completely blank, just empty gray bubbles. Panic starts to well up in Alexander’s chest.

_ [When in the Course of human events] _

_ [It becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another] _

_ [And to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.] _

[Stop!!!] he tries to turn his phone to ‘do not disturb’ but text still flit across the screen

_ [We hold these truths to be self-evident] _

The ass of a state's secretary shows no sign of bending to Hamilton’s demand, messages continue to pop up with little buzz of the phone. 

He’s fucked, well and truly fucked. Going over on his plan cost a fortune and it's the end of the month already. Still half asleep and desperate to save his poor phone bill, Alexander does the only thing he can think of in the moment.

He powers down his cell.

And throws it as far as he can across the room.

It hits the far wall with a dull thud and falls into a pile of clothes that need washing. The brunette is panting like he just sprinted a mile, breath ragged and heart pounding in his chest from the unnecessary adrenaline rush. He tries to steady his breathing,and when his body finally relax against the mattress again, he unintentionally falls back into dreamless sleep. 


	3. Storms on the Horizen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander is over Jefferson's little game, he doesn't have to take this kind of abuse. In a last ditch effort to get his signature, Hamilton plans a stake out of sorts. He'll get this bill passed even if it kills him, and it just might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally just got home after an eight hour car ride and immediately grabbed my computer so I could get this to you guys today. I hope you like this chapter, it's one of my favorites!

When Alexander reaches across the bed for his phone the next morning he’s temporarily surprised that the callous pads of his fingers graze over a wooden surface. It only takes him a moment to regather his thoughts however, and when the previous night’s shenanigans ebb back into his mind he’s pressing his face deeply into his pillow. With a groan, Hamilton practically rolls out of his bed and tumbles to the flood. Hard to believe the man is in his mid thirties sometimes. He untangles himself from the sheets  that had wrapped tightly around his ankles when he flopped from the mattress with some trouble,having a hard time getting his limbs to do what he wants. Once free, he staggers over to where the pile of laundry he should really get around to is. His phone is sitting neatly on top, its screen innocently black and silent. Hamilton drops to his knees beside the unwashed clothes and gingerly grabs his phone, trying to mentally prepare himself for the damage. Even while rooming with John, money could be tight, so when he’d been faced with the choice of unlimited texting and unlimited data, Hamilton chose the latter. Most of his correspondence is usually through email anyway, the only people he ever really texts are Laurens, Laf, Mulligan, and on very rare occasions Eliza Schuyler. The two may not be together anymore, but the young child rights activist likes to keep in touch and remind him that there are no hard feelings, and for that he’s grateful.  Regardless, when push comes to shove, he uses the internet far more then he texts, and his plan is very strict about him going over on his limit, trying to entice him to spend more for something he doesn’t need. He sends up a silent pray to whomever might be listening, begging for the damage Jefferson did to be minimal. 

The first thing Alexander notices when he goes to boot up his phone, is the crack in the screen right on the home button. The fracture makes it stick when pressed. Already a low simmer has started deep in his chest. Trying not to think about replacing the screen, he turns on his cell and watches as it flashes to life. It only takes a moment and when it’s full on his usual lock screen appears, one of the absolutely worst picture of him and his three friends, all crowded around the device, squeezing in front of the camera. The snapshot of much happier times is there for only a brief moment however, before it’s replaced with a message. One that informs him that he has two hundred unread texts. 

A soul rending sound leaves Alexander, in fact, it kind of sounds like his soul is being ripped from his body. His spine softens, giving way its support of his head and allowing him to face plant the wall ahead of him with a tremendous thud. He glances back down at the phone in his hand, hoping that maybe he just read it wrong, but no, the message still winkes deviously up at him, just as venomous and rage inducing as one of Jefferson’s own smirks. He makes another pitiable noise. Two hundred. Two fucking hundred messages. Because, when your turn off your phone, it doesn’t actually stop you from receiving messages, it just stops alerting you to them.  At twenty five cents per text he goes over on his plan that equals roughly- go fuck yourself. He bangs his head into the wall again, almost hoping it goes through the plaster. You don’t pay bills if you're dead. 

“Nooooooo.” he moans out, fingers trembling as he types in his password.

He has to load later text four times before he ‘s back at the place in the conversation that he was before he violently lobbed his phone across the room. Jefferson had indeed sent him the entirety of the declaration of independence, piece by piece,  and when he had finished with that he started to heckle Alexander, most likely trying to prompt him into a screaming match. The last text had come in around four in the morning, and it simply says. 

_ [This is boring, I’m going to turn in for the night] _

He’s going to kill him. It's something Alexander says a lot, but this time, this time he’s actually going to murder the man. As soon as he can find the motivation to get up off the floor. 

“Alex are you alright?” Laurens sticks his head in. he must have heard all the banging and shouting and gotten worried. In an instant he’s at Hamilton’s side, wrapping a hand around his shoulder. “Hey, what happened?”

Alexander whines pathetically, passing his phone to John without detaching his forehead from the wall. There’s a beat of silence as the other man scroll through his phone, then he breaths out an. “Oh shit.”

“That bastard...” The Alexander moans, rutting his skull against the plaster again. 

“Seriously” Laurens agrees. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You know we’ve got you covered if you need it.”

He sighs. “Thanks John, you’re  good friend.”

The other chuckles softly. “I try.”

The corners of Hamilton’s mouth twitch upward. Laurens is one of the best men he knows. Good natured, giving, good looking and driven for his cause. If Alexander were smart, he’d just settle down with someone like him, kind and understanding, a nice complement to his abrasive, cuddly- like- a- steamroller personality. But he could never seem to allow himself simple happiness, always tending to be the self sabotaging type. His failed relationship with the gentle hearted Eliza still serves as a stinging reminder of that. He’d never found satisfaction in the simple, he always strives for challenge, to move against the grain. Like taking the harder path will prove him more capable.  The stability of a relationship with someone like Eliza or even Laurens would only produce idleness, and there’s no excitement or challenge in that, as awful as that may sound. In that way, Alexander tends to serve as his own biggest foil. He strives for greatness, for something to overcome, he lives for the challenge, and as a result, he’s never really content unless he’s pursuing a goal. 

“Seriously though.” Laurens voice draws him back the situation at hand. “What are you going to do about Jefferson?” 

 

Hamilton comes bursting into Jefferson’s office a few hours later, desperately trying to keep his rage contained for Laurens’ sake. Last time he’d been this livid with the southerner, it was during a debate on foreign policy. He’d thrown a stapler, Jefferson had punched him in the mouth, It was a blur, really. Both of them had gotten suspended for a month, and as Laurens put it so eloquently,  Alexander was ‘a massive pain in the goddamn ass’ when he had no work to do. So for the sake of his dear friend’s sanity, he’d promised not to have one of his rage induced blackouts. Anyway, the ever contemptuous Jefferson sits at his desk as always, hardly giving him any attention until he slams his palms flat against the sleek wood surface.

“Listen here you trust fund southern fuck.-” Alexander growls, anger fueled by how much extra he’s going to have to pay the phone company this month, by every insult to the bill he’d meticulously drafted, by Jefferson utter disrespect for him, and by how disgustingly well the man’s dark curls frame his face. Stupid beautiful bastard. The thought only makes his blood boil hotter. “I’m done being your source of entertainment. Haha, it was all very funny, now sign my fucking bill so I never have to deal with you directly again.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes dramatically. “Still neglecting basic formalities I see. Honestly Hamilton, the whole bursting in here hot enough to fry an egg on and slamming on my desk is getting old.” he sighs.

Alexander bites his lip, hard. “Are you going to sign it, or not?”

“Not when you’re being so blatantly disrespectful”

“OH MY GOD” his fingers twich up into a fist, but he restrains himself from clocking Jefferson. He takes one deep breath, then another, trying to pull on some of those anger management tips Eliza had taught him. “Fine, alright, fine.” He then drops into a chair opposite the State Secretary, pulling his laptop from his satchel with more ferocity than is probably isn’t good for it. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Jefferson asks, leaning back in his chair, as if to observe Hamilton’s frantic motions better. 

“If you won’t sign it now, fine.” he mutters through gritted teeth, booting up his computer. “I’ll just stick with you until you do.”

“Hamilton no, get the fuck out.”

“Sign my bill.”he snaps back, meeting Jefferson’s heated look with his own glare. 

Jefferson cocks his head to the side,  fingers carefully locked one over the other. “Well, it would seem that we’re at an impasse.”

There’s a beat of heavy, stifling silence between them. Alexander is the first to break it, to the surprise of neither party. “I thought you said that you looked it over last night. At least, that’s what I interpreted from the excruciating amount of texts I received.”

“Just because I proofed that pathetic excuse for legislation doesn’t mean I signed it, nor does it imply that I even have it with me today. As fate would have it, I left it on my desk this morning. So feel free to hang around if you’d like, but it won’t get you what you want.” The Virginian flashes him a humorless smile, before turning back to his own computer. 

 

The air in the room becomes suffocating as a delicate balancing act between the two is set in motion, Neither speaks, the only sound between them is the furious pounding of keyboard keys and the hum of the vents, practically deafening in the absolute silence of the space. The poor intern that wanders in looking for Jefferson is nearly crushed under the weighty atmosphere they’ve created. She pales when the two Secretaries’ misdirected glares land on her, color draining into the void. She drops the file she’s carrying onto the desk, then scurries out mumbling ‘Sorry to have bothered you.” as she makes her quick escape. But neither Jefferson nor Hamilton relent, because at a some point, an unspoken challenge was issued and the two have never been known to back down from competition of any sort, even if the tension crackling between them like electricity is potent enough to power all of DC. It’s like a test of mental endurance, who can go the longest without starting the inevitable. At least, that’s how Hamilton sees it, though, he’s not quite sure what the inevitable result might be. It couldn’t possibly be good, whatever it is. 

And Jefferson isn’t the only man of his word. True to his own, when the taller man shut his laptop at noon with a snap, that he won’t admit made him jump, and gets up to leave, Alexander is right behind him. Jefferson catches him out of his peripheral  and rolls his eyes, and Hamilton wonders if it hurts to do that as often as he does. They step into the elevator together, and the stiffness that followed them from the four walls of Jefferson’s office makes the others inside exchange nervous glances. Everyone in Washington knows exactly how the two can get, many had witnessed their infamous verbal (borderline physical ) brawls more than once. It's no wonder that they exit in a hurry, not enthusiastic to be around if or when the first punch is thrown. 

If it isn’t obvious where Jefferson is unwillingly leading him, the break room is all but quiet when they enter, fellow lawmakers and legislators huddled around tables like in a high school cafeteria. Without a word, Jefferson darts from Hamilton’s side, retrieves his lunch from the fridge and makes a beeline for Madison, who sits alone at a table in the corner, like he'd be waiting for the taller man. He swiftly pulls up a seat beside him and immediately they start conversing in hushed tones. Madison flashes Alexander a look over the Jefferson’s  shoulder. He knows that look. It’s like the one Angelica used to give him when he and Eliza had started dating. It’s almost unnerving to be receiving it from Madison. What could the two possible be talking about to warrant such a glare? Well regardless of the discussion, it’s painfully clear that Hamilton isn’t welcome to sit with them. Not that he would what to anyway. 

“YOOO Ham!”

Alexander turns towards the call and breaths out a sigh of relief when he sees Mulligan franticly waving him over. A smile pushes its way onto his lips for the first time that day. He plops down in the flimsy plastic chair beside his friend. 

Mulligan claps a hand to the back of his neck and shakes furiously, the most common of his greetings. “Whatsup man, feels like I haven’t seen you in ages!”

Hamilton chuckles weakly. “The feeling is mutual, my friend. How’ve you been?”

“I’m alright man. What have ya been up to? You get that bill of yours on the floor yet?”

“Not yet...” he shoots a glare in the direction of the intently whispering Virginians. “I’m working on it though.”

Mulligan guffores. “Oh shit, I can’t wait to see you and Jefferson duke  _ that  _ one out in the ring.”

“Yeah...” Jefferson and Madison keep glancing at him over their shoulders. Hamilton’s brow creases, what the hell are they talking about?

“Yo.” Mulligan taps the back of his hand against his forearm to get his attention

He jumps slightly. “Wha-?” 

“Dude, it looks like you’re trying to set those two on fire.”

“You wouldn’t be that far off.”

“Damn, so is it true then?”

“Is what true?” Alexander says, eyes narrowing. 

Mulligan scoots in closer and drops his usual booming voice to a murmur. “People’ve been saying that Jefferson’s been busting your ass like an intern. Rumor has it that he has some mad hold on you, like I’m talking some serious dirt.”

“Oh...”

Leave it to Lee to spread lies to anyone who’d listen. By the sounds of it, the whole building thinks Jefferson has something nasty over him, a sex scandal or similar. It’s just then that he realizes that volume in the break room has considerable decreased since he enter, the tables conversing in hushed tones. Well, they can think whatever they want. Whispers have followed him since the day he penned his way to New York, the murmurs hardly faze him anymore. He’s long since grown used to the hushes comments and probing stares as he passes, with a past like his, it's hard not the be the center of gossip. A young boy ferried in from the Caribbean, an illegitimate orphan at that, who, with only a pen and incredibly eloquent word working, was able to pull himself out of poverty and eventually join the President's Cabinet. No, rumors and whispers are nothing new to Hamilton. So screw them, the only thing that matters is getting his bill passed, and he plans to do it even if it kills him. 

 

Back in Jefferson office, it’s clear the neither party plans to yield from this high stakes game of the silence treatment. They both continue to work best they can given the situation, glaring holes at each other over the tops of their laptops. Time drags, apparently weighed down by how thick the air between them is and the hands of the clock creeps steadily closer to six. It’s around five thirty that Jefferson next stands. He rises out of his chair and twists to both sides, the vertebrae of his long spine cracking up and down. Hamilton makes to follow him, pressing his palms against the arms of his chair, readying to spring up like a tightened coil. 

“Please.” Jefferson scoffs, shooting Alexander a withering look down the bridge of his nose. “Don’t tell me you plan on following me to the bathroom  too.”

Alexander flushes, relaxing back into his seat. “Of course not. Just, don’t think you’re giving me the slip.”

The taller man waves his hand dismissively, taking a handful of long strides towards the door. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He lingers in the door for just a moment, dramatic fingers wrap around the frame. “Try not to miss me to much.” he then winks and steps out of sight.

Hamilton huffs, rubbing his hands forcefully across his face. This endeavor of his severed no purpose other than to trap him in a room with Jefferson all day, which can’t possible be good for his blood pressure. The only thing he can do is hope that Jefferson wants to avoid a repeat of today as badly as he does because honestly, he doesn’t think he can do it again either. There’s something far more rattling about this then getting into a screaming match over politics. This was practically soul crushing, suffocating, supercharges silence for nearly ten hours. 

A few minutes pass and Jefferson doesn’t appear, it's not until after ten go by that Alexander decides that something's up. 

He jumps quickly from his chair, hurriedly stuffing things into his bag. 

“Sonuvabitch.” he whispers fiercely under his breath, slinging the satchel across his shoulder and darting from the office. 

The elevator can’t come quick enough and he pushes his way inside, his incisively tapping foot making those around his exchange worried glances. Like sharks sensing blood in the water, the onlookers could tell that something was about to go down. Hamilton burst out once they reach the ground floor, rapidly scanning the milling crowd for a bouncing tuff of ebony curls, peeking out above the rest. But he as no such luck. With a low growl building up in the back of his throat, Alexander storms over to the lobby’s front desk, where a wisp of a young woman sits. 

“Did Thomas Jefferson come through here recently.” he asks, the hard edge evident in his voice. 

The girl blinks owlishly up at him through her glasses. “Yes, um Mr. Jefferson left about five minutes ago.”

“God DAMNIT!” his loud exclamation causes the whole room to pause, but he pays them no mind as he stomps towards the entrance. His fingers tremble as he text Laurens that he’s taking the bus and will met him back at the apartment. 

 

Hamilton is still fuming when he gets back home, the second the door closes behind him he’s shredding off his suit jacket. He strips out of his work cloths with a ferocity he usually saves for the congress floor, adding them the ever growing pile he never seems to have time for. He quickly dons a worn t shirt he’d saved from his college days, a pair of jeans that had definitely seen better times, and an oversized sweatshirt with a big, floppy hood. His hair is haphazardly  thrown up in a loss bun and then Alexander takes to pacing the apartment, waiting for Laurens to get back. He shows up a few minutes later, clearly looking concerned. 

“What happened with Jefferson? I thought you had a plan.” he says while dropping his bag on sofa.

Alexander can only muster up a grunt of frustration. “The bastard gave me the slip.”

“That sucks.”

He’s pacing again, hands balled up in his pockets. “I’m going over there.” the brunette snaps, snatching his wallet from the coffee table.

“What, now?!”

“Yup,” he storms past Laurens toward the door. Perhaps it's not the best idea, but in the heat of the moment, while blood is pumping heatedly through his ears, he’s not exactly making rational decisions. He’s not sure what he’s going to do when he gets there but he expects that lots of yelling will be involved. 

“Wait, hang on second.” 

His friend’s voice has Alexander pause with his hand on the door. He glances over his shoulder at Laurens.

The other man is scooping his keys off the couch. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t drive the getaway car.” he steps past Alexander and moves to open the door, but before he does he fixes the Secretary with a serious look. “Just promise me you won’t kill anyone.”

Hamilton chuckles, but it's dark, choked sound. “I’ll do my damndest John.”

  
  


Laurens drops him off on the curb in front of Jefferson’s town house, with the promise to pick Alexander up when he’s done. Just staring down the front door is getting him all worked up again. There’s still so much unresolved tension in him, festering from the quiet of the day. Without some  sort of outlet for his rage, it had just continued to build and build in his gut until he was basically seeing red.

Now Hamilton has never been known for impeccable grace under pressure. He rants and he raves during cabinet debates, he sends long, passionate emails to his political rivals, punching holes in their policies with vicious glee.  He’s published his own personal musings on those who would insult him, meeting every allegation and blow to his person with twice the venom. Multiple times the President has had to pull him aside to avoid full out brawls on his congress floor. Alexander has been escorted out of public affairs more times than he’d like to admit.  Rational and level headed aren’t two words that are usually used to describe him. Brilliant, sure. Impassioned, of course. Eliza had used to compare him to a hurricane, powerful, wild and unbridled. The barriers that would try to restrain him, he would sweep aside. She’d had told him he was a hurricane the night they’d broken up. She’d had tears in her eyes and a soft, heart twisting smile on her face when she’s explained it to him. She said she was foolish, like a child trying to catch a storm with a butterfly net. But she’s wrong. Alexander has never seen himself as a hurricane. Because hurricanes have centers, moments of calm and peace at their cores and Alexander can never be still, not even for a second. If he was, everything he’s worked so hard to achieve would come crashing down around him like a house of cards. No, he’s not a hurricane. He’s a typhoon. He’s a rushing wall of water, a flood with no end, never quiet or still for a moment. And the waves of him are about to come crashing  against Jefferson’s  door until it breaks. 

Dark clouds are starting to gather on the horizon, the wind picking up its pace with cold gusts. Nature itself seems to foreshadow the impending confrontation, as the sky starts to darken before the sun has fully set. 

He stomps up the front steps, right to the dark polished door, and he starts to pound, slamming his fist to the wood. “Jefferson, you souther mother fucker! Open up!” he continues to pound. 

A few moments pass, his knocking  doesn’t relent even when his hand starts to grow sore. Eventually the door is pulled open and Jefferson emerges looking utterly pissed off. 

Good, Alexander thinks. At least they’ll match each other's energy this way. 

“You’re stalking me in my own home now?” Jefferson asks bitterly, one hand coming to rest on his hip as he looms in the doorway. 

“Let me in, we need to talk.” Hamilton growls, almost trembling with rage. Something about the Virginian just sets him off.

Scratch that.  _ Everything _ about the man winds him up. 

“Hell no, I don’t invite stray cats into my house. Now get off my steps.” he makes to close the door, but Hamilton’s hand shoots out to hold it in place. 

“Listen here-”

“No, you listen, you little shit.” the sharpness with which Jefferson breaths it out actually sends a cool sudder of unease down his spine. There’s something more hostile in his tone than is usual present in their heated debates and it makes Alexander want to shrink back instinctively, but he forces  himself not to shy away or back down, even as the other man skewers him with his pointed glare. “This is my  _ fucking _ house, and I am not going to  _ fucking  _ let you in just because you come here making demands. This is  _ my _ house.”

“I’m not going to leave.” Alexander tosses back.

“Fine.” Jefferson bares his teeth and wrenches the door from his grip with enough strength to make Hamilton stumble. “Sit on the front steps all night for all I care.”

With that, he slams the door shut behind him, the force of it hitting the frame makes the dimly buzzing porch light shudder. 

“FINE!” Alexander kicks the door like a child, then he flops onto the cool stone steps with a huff. His arms cross tightening over his chest, over his rapidly beating heart. 

The wind is really starting to pick up now, it blow flyaway strands of hair into Alexander’s face and whispers gently over his flushed face. He’s so fucking sick of Jefferson, of being bossed around by the bastard. He’s going to sit on his fucking front steps all night, just to spite that idiotic, pompous, dick bag.  

That’s when the first drop of rain hits his nose. It's such a tiny thing that Alexander thinks he might have imagined it at first. But then there’s another, this one speckling his cheek. His brows furrow, trying to remember if he heard anything about rain today, but the ominous clouds pushing down on him tell him more then any weather station could. He holds out a hand, palm up, just to be sure. Instantly it’s doused in  a fine shower of water.

“Crap...” he mutters under his breath, shoving both hands deep into the front of his hoodie. Jefferson’s front door is pressed back in it’s own alcove,  an overhang blocks it from the sky. Alexander scoots up the steps until he’s as far under the cover of the alcove as possible, with his back pressed to the door. With the rain and the wind came a drastic drop in temperature. A shiver threatens to rack his body as a gentle drizzle beingz. Hopefully, the rain will pass quickly.

But then again, when has he ever been so lucky?

The rain grows heavier and faster, quickly becoming a total downpour. The sound of the thick drops as they hit the pavement is deafening, like someone dropping marbles on the floor.  The temperature has lowered a few more degrees, and honestly, Hamilton could handle the cold, if the wind weren’t so hard that it was basically blowing the rain horizontally. Right at him. Strong gust funnel the storm into the alcove where he sits. He tries to ignore it as the rain starts to dampen the ends of his pants and the sleeves of his sweater. Shuddering against the cold, Alexander draws his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around them. He’s not going to leave though, he’s tougher than a little water and he knows it. The wind blows harder, bullet like drops start to splatter the fronts of his legs, soaking the fabric quickly. Water pelts his face and shoulders, the material of his old gray hoodie darkening as the rain begins to drench him.

Soon he’s utterly soaked through, and freezing. His hair is plastered to his skull and back of his damp neck, so waterlogged that it’s dripping onto his sweatshirt. Unfortunately the water has nowhere to go, seeing as there isn’t a speck on him that’s dry. Even the places shielded from the rain by the curves and folds of the fabric are wet, water encroaching on the areas as the damp places can no longer hold the saturation. The divots in his long, puffy sleeves are slowly turning into pools of stagnant water. The same is true of his jeans, every inch of him is soaking wet like he’d just jumped in a pool.

And he’s so cold. 

The wind is merciless, it pelts him with fat rain drops and gust over him until he’s quaking. His skin is more goosebumps then flesh at this point, icy and damp. He ears ache, so cold that they’ve started to burn dully. He’s rapidly losing  feeling in his extremities too. The tips of his fingers are shriveled and numb. Alexander has never been this cold before in his life. The chill is gnawing on his very bones, sapping away all his energy. His legs hurt, it feels like his water logged jeans are constricting around them. The brunette tries to curl tighter in on himself, desperate to conserve the last of the heat he has. His clothes squlesh as he does this, water leaking out. He’s just so cold, so freezing cold, and tired. Hamilton burrows the numb tip of his nose deeper into his arms, willing his eyes to stay open, fighting a losing battle to remain conscious. . He’s cold, cold,  _ cold _ . It’s all he can think about, how stiff and useless his limbs are, how icy his hair feels stuck to the back of his neck. He needs to leave, to seek out warmth, but at this point, he feels too drained to even move. 

Hamilton has imagined his own death more times than is probably socially acceptable to admit without getting put on some kind of watch list. Death has alway been a very real concept to him, ever since the sickeningly young age of eight, as he watched the people around him drop dead of all sorts of things. Hunger, violence, disease- to name a few. He’s made peace with fact that he’s going to die quite early in his life, sometimes it just feels like he’s filling up the time while he waits for it to catch him,racing against the clock of his own demise. He vividly remembers lying in the hospital, staring blankly up at the ceiling, just waiting to die. But death didn’t take him on that bed, nor did it sweep him away with his home and countless friends when he was seventeen. It didn’t catch him with bullet to the neck when he severed in the war, didn’t break him even it his darkest of hours. But it looks like he finally ran out of borrowed time. He’s going to freeze to death on Thomas fucking Jefferson’s front steps. How very anticlimactic. 

Then, suddenly, the door Alexander has been cowering against is being wrenched open, bright light spilling out over his back, but he doesn’t have it in him to even turn  his neck at this point. 

“Oh for FUCKS SAKE!” 

Hamilton’s instincts make him want to snap at the bellowing southern, but honestly his teeth are chattering to hard for him to speak. The next thing he knows, Jefferson’s hand has closed around the hood of his sweatshirt and he jerks Alexander to his feet in one swift movement. The thick seam of the collar cuts deep into his throat and he blanches, tears welling up in his eyes at the sudden jolt of pain. And now Jefferson is pulling him inside. It’s warm inside, but despite the jump in temperature, Alexander is still frozen. The heat doesn't seem to be able to permeate the icy exterior that is his skin. 

“Come on. God fucking DAMNIT” he drags Hamilton along by the collar,  practically growling under his breath. 

The fabric digging into his adam’ apple makes him cough and splutter weakly, but the taller man shows no signs of relenting or releasing his grip. He yanks him through the house, Alexander only barely able to support his own weight on stiff, fumbling legs that feel like lead. Without the support of Jefferson’s death grip on his hood, he would have collapsed by this point. He tried to struggle out of this less than gentle hold,twisting and flailing his arms, making meek swipes at the other man’s wrist,  his nails graze the back of his broad hand. 

Jefferson gives a particularly harsh yank to the hood, making him gag dryly. “Stop that right now!” 

He tows the other, rain drenched man a few more paces, Hamilton’s feet scrambling to find purchase on the hardwood floor. When he comes to sudden halt, Alexander staggers into his side. The taller man heaves open a door and shoves him inside with no warning at all. The next thing Alexander knows, he’s tumbling into a bathroom. He throws out a hand to catch himself on something, anything to keep him from eating shit on the polished flood. Instead, the edge of a counter catches him in the small of the back, eliciting a hiss from between his clenched teeth as pain shoots up his side. Jefferson is on him again in a second, towering over Alexander as he clutches at the counter for support. His face is a hairbreadth away from his, Hamilton can feel the hot puffs of air coming from the other’s mouth against his cheeks. Jefferson’s face is twisted into the physical manifestation of rage. 

“Strip!” he barks, dark eyes flashing with fire. 

Hamilton clenches his jaw, using every last ounce of fight he has left in him to snarl out a weak. “Screw you...”

Jefferson doesn’t like that  _ at all.  _

Alexander blinks and suddenly the other man's hands are grasping the hem of his sopping wet sweater, aggressively dragging him off the counter. Jefferson jerks it upward, manhandling the hoodie over his head, maneuvering it with much the same rough ferocity that he argues with. Alexander squawks indignantly as his arms are forced up above  his head painfully. Once he’s physically stripped him of his hoodie, Jefferson throws it to the floor, where it slops against the tile with a loud, wet slap. Then he winds his fingers tightly into Alexander’s hair, yanking at the elastic band that holds the soaking mass together. It takes three, hair wrenching tugs to get it out and the ordeal leaves the brunette’s scalp stinging. Hamilton hardy has a moment to gasp out in pain before the taller man has his fists clenched around the front of his equally soaked shirt. He’s heaved forward, practically off the ground, until the only thing he can see is Jefferson. 

“I said strip, you little shit. Do you understand me?” he voice is nothing more then a deadly whisper, like something in him finally snapped. 

Alexander nods mutely, tongue sealed to the roof of his mouth.  

Jefferson shoves him back against the counter, barks out. “Don’t you dare think about moving.” then he storms out if the bathroom, all rage and wild hair. 

Hamilton gulps down air, the violence of the exchange coupled with his freezing, lethargic body leaves him shaking. His hands gently grasp at the hem of his t shirt, that clings to him like a second skin. He fumbles it over his head with some trouble. In the distance, he can faintly hear Jefferson’s voice, but he’s too out of it to really register what he’s saying. It’s just a loud,  garbled mess of explicits being spat out in an angry tone of voice that echos off the walls of the town house. Alexander lower his hands to the button on his jeans, undoes the zipper with trembling fingers. The wet denim seems to have fused to his legs. As he struggles to shed them, hopping and stumbling, his elbow knocks against the counter behind him with a sharp crack that has him wincing and fresh wave of tears forcing their way into the corners of his eyes. He kicks them off to join the rest of his soaking clothes in the pile on the polished tile. A shiver wracks his body violently, despite the warmth of the house, and Hamilton wraps his arms tightly around his torso, standing in the middle of Jefferson’s bathroom in only his dripping boxer briefs. 

The thud of Jefferson’s feet on the hardwood makes him jump, turning just in time to be hit in the face with a wad of dry cloth, then the footfalls fade away again. A pair of sweatpants, a worn shirt, and a pair of silky soft boxers. The man really had thought of everything. Ignoring open door, Alexander strips off his underwear and numbly slips on the new, dry pair, trying not to dwell on the fact that they must be Jefferson’s and instead relishing in the fact that they aren't waterlogged and feel delightfully warm against his clammy skin. He pulls the shirt over his head next, the thing swallowing him up because he’s so much shorter than his unlikely host. It falls just a mid thin, the sleeves brushing the backs of his hands though it’s clearly a three fourth shirt, the collar hangs precariously on the curve of his left shoulder. Next he pulls on the sweatpants, the extra fabric collects at his ankles and drags on the floor. Only now is Alexander starting to feel warm, but he doesn’t get a chance to relish the sensation. 

A moment later, Jefferson is stomping in, looking no less pissed. Before Hamilton can open his mouth, the southerner grabs a fistful of his dripping brown hair and proceeds to drag him bodily from the bathroom. Anything resembling words of appreciation are torn from Alexander lips along with the shape gasp that leaves him.

“Stop!” his protests are soft, meek. He’s too tired to put up a real fight, but he tries, twisting against the fingers locked in his hair. “Stop, it hurts. Let go!”

To Hamilton’s utter shock, Jefferson relinquishes his hair with a huff, instead curling his fingers into the fabric around his shoulder He yanks Alexander down the hall, muttering curses under his breath. Hamilton manages to catch a string of words. 

“Goddamn liberal little shit about to die on my fucking steps. Son of a bitch, god fuck-” he growls. “Water stains on my fucking hard wood.” The rest of his words lapse into incoherent rambling, intermixed with an occasional explicit. 

The hall opens up to living room, or maybe a sitting room, regardless, there’s a couch, and Jefferson flings him onto it. He then sits himself down next to Hamilton and throws the towel that he had had draped over his shoulder over the other man’s head. He panics immediately, automatically assuming that Jefferson is attempting to smother him. He tries to struggle out from beneath the towel, throwing punches at the virginian.

Jefferson responds by knocking Hamilton upside the covered head, making stars flash in front if his eyes. 

“Stop struggling you little bitch.” He huffs, rubbing the towel hard into Hamilton’s scalp. Once he’s rung the excess water out, leaving his hair only mildly damp and poofy, Jefferson stands and slings the towel back over his shoulder. “Don't move.” He threatens. 

As he leaves, Hamilton slumps against the armrest of the sofa, feeling utterly spent. Warmth is just now starting to return to his extremities, his toes and fingertips begin to prickle with pinpoints of heat. It’s only now that he realizes he’s been involuntarily quaking this whole time, every muscle in his body pulled taut against the cold. He tries to relax, his mind is foggy with encroaching exhaustion. He wills the sofa to swallow him up. It's so soft and warm and inviting. Another shudder passes down his spine as his eyes start to fall shut. 

“Sit up” comes Jefferson’s sharp command, prompting Alexander to peel back his eyelids. The virginian is standing before him with a steaming mug of something. “Sit  _ up!”  _

Alexander does so with no resistance, to tired to resist anymore. All he wants is to sleep. 

Jefferson pushes the mug into his ice cold hand. “Drink it all, and so help me god if you spill a drop of it on my couch, I’m going to throw you back out into that storm.” 

The brunette bobs his head once to show that he understands, staring into depths if the mug in his hands. It's smells like tea, a strong, flowery french aroma wafting from it. Alexander takes a slow sip, feeling disjointed, like some link was severed between his body and brain. The disconnect makes him feel dizzy. 

Jefferson rolls his eyes and moves to rummage through a vintage looking wooden chest. Not a moment later, he’s hovering over him again, this time holding a bundle of blankets in his arms. He draps them over Alexander with a jarring sort of gentleness that doesn’t match his furrowed brow or clenched jaw. Hamilton's sluggish brain hardly has the time to slosh through why his rival is being so kind before Jefferson is leaning over him, and suddenly what little brain function that he has putters to a halt. The taller man bends over him to tuck in the ends of the blankets, bringing the exposed column of his neck within a inch of Hamilton’s nose. Alexander inhales sharply, off put by the sudden proximity and immediately his sense are flood with a scent that is overwhelmingly  _ Jefferson _ . Fragrant spices and something sharp and probably expensive, like scotch,  but in this moment Alexander doesn't care, because it’s somehow stronger than the pungent tea he’s grasping at for dear life. He’ll blame it in fatigue later, but the musk is just so intoxicating that he loses himself in it for a moment. His eyes fall shut and he fucking  _ whimpers _ , wanting nothing more in this instance then to press his face into the warmth of Jefferson’s throat and breath in that smell forever. 

The soft sound doesn't go unnoticed by Jefferson, the man jerks back like he was just shocked, fixing Hamilton with a confused look. The shorter man flushes, heat barely touching his chilled cheeks. 

Jefferson doesn't mention it though, he just shakes his head slightly then points to the tea Alexander is cradling to his chest. “Finish it.”  He instructs firmly. Then he drops his tall form into a plush arm chair across from Hamilton, tucking his legs beneath him. 

Alexander watched him lean over, grab a book from the side table and flip it open. Embossed lettering on the front says  _ War and Peace.  _ He takes another sip of his tea. Even from this distance Alexander can see the little droplets of water still caught in the other man’s hair. They glisten like little diamonds against his dark curls, giving him an almost halo like effect as the light refracts off it. Alexander blinks the thought from his mind, he’s delirious with fatigue it would seem.  

Neither says anything as Hamilton quickly finished his drink. The tea warms him from the inside out and he’s feeling more exhausted than ever. He sinks farther into the heap of blankets Jefferson had arranged so meticulously around him, the now empty mug slipping from his grasp. Alexander tries, but he can no longer fight the demands of his body. Rather against his conscious will, he passes out a few seconds later, falling into a dreamless sleep with ease. 


	4. Flooded His Senses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the embarrassment of the previous night, Alexander heads home and starts to gain a more intimate understanding of his feelings towards Jefferson. But he'll never admit to jack shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLD ON TO YOUR HATS EVERYBODY IT'S A NSFW CHAPTER! ( Please for give me for the reference title) Thanks again to everyone who's been leaving comments, they absolutely make my day. And a HUGE thanks to both my beta readers, Ham-for- Ham and Clebimebi on tumblr, you guys are the best.  
> Hey, tell me what your favorite part of this chapter was, I'd love to hear!!

When Alexander reaches across his bed the next morning to turn off his phone, he’s more than a little surprised that he’s pawing the air. He’s even more surprised when he extends his arm bit farther and comes tumbling off the bed as a result. 

_ “Fuck-!” _

A jolt of pain shoots up his arm when his shoulder connects with the hardwood. He opens his sleep heavy eyes to gaze blearily at a cream colored ceiling that is definitely not his. After a brief moment of disorientation, memories of last night flood back into his mind. He groans deeply, throwing an arm over his face to block out the cheerful sunlight shining in through a big bay window. The whole situation is embarrassing beyond belief. He’d just, let Jefferson drag him about, forcible care for him, god, even tuck him, like he’s a child that needs to be cared for. As if he needs more reason for Jefferson to call him  _ incompetent _ . He’s never going to let Alexander live this one down. 

Brisling under his breath, the brunette clambers from the floor with heavy limbs. He quickly takes a moment to asses the situation. He’s still in Jefferson’s sitting room, still in the borrowed clothes from the night before. The blankets that had served as such a source of embarrassment hours ago lay in a heap on the floor beside the sofa. The high backed arm chair Jefferson had previously occupied is empty now, aside from a neatly folded afghan and thick volume of  _ War and Peace.  _ Jefferson himself is nowhere in sight. Alexander’s not sure what he was expecting. Obviously the southern would have went to sleep in his own bed, it’s not like he’d ever subject his own comfort for Hamilton’s sake. Right? Then again, before last night he’d assumed the man would have left him out in that storm to die. He pushes the thought to the back of his mind, he can dwell on his rival’s motives later. Right now he’d like to acquire his belongings and get the hell out of here. 

His cloths from the previous day are sitting, nicely stacked, on the coffee table to his left, his phone resting on top. He goes to pick it up, but as he leans over he spots the note beneath it. It’s handwritten,  sloping letters in black ink on personalized stationery. ‘ _ TJ _ ’’ embossed in gold, curling cursive at the bottom, surrounded by a cluster of little purple irises. 

_ Alexander _

_ Being the utter disappointment you are, it would seem you’ve passed out on my sofa. It’s a testament to my unfathomable patience  that I don’t hail you a cab and send you on your way now. Don’t make me regret this decision. I’ve thrown your cloths in the dryer and will have them laid out for you in the morning because I rather die than have you walking around with my things. I pray you sleep until I leave tomorrow so you don’t ruin my morning like you did this evening. That being said-  _

_ Do not be here when I get home  _

_ \- T. Jefferson _

 

Alexander rolls his eyes and crumples the note up in his fist. As if he’d ever linger. The thematic cross between french parlor and souther comfort this room presents is already giving him a headache. Vigorously rubbing a hand over his pulsing temple, he clicks on his phone to check the time, only to find he has a handful of messages from Laurens waiting for him

 

_ [Just let me know when you need me to pick you up Alex. We’ll grab some beers and forget this day ever happened ;p] _

_ [Dude its like, 9:40. Lol Jefferson didnt kill you did he?] _

_ [Alex?] _

_ [Alex?] _

_ [Alex!] _

_ [You promised me you would kill anyone tonight goddamnit] _

_ [Stop disposing of evidence and text me back!] _

_ [Alex Motherfucking Hamilton] _

And the most recent, sent only an hour prior. 

_ [If I dont hear from you in the next hour Im calling the police and telling them Jefferson hacked you up into little pieces in his bathtub] _

Alexander sighs, the smallest hint of a smile working its way onto his face. Laurens has a quirky way of expressing his concern, it’s endearing really. 

[Put the phone down John, here, proof of life. Dial it back]

After sending the text, he glances at the time. 

It’s nearly ten. That fact alone sends him reeling. Alexander has  _ never _ slept this late before, ever. He’s late for work. His head gives a particularly harsh pulse of pain. There’s no point in going into the office today, he decides. He’s sore all over, feels like utter shit and the idea of being around people right now makes him want to burrow back into the blankets on the floor. Plus, he’s really  not ready to face Jefferson, with his condescending smirks and snide comments about how oh so very  _ ‘dependent’  _ Alexander is. No thank you sir. Besides, he’s far enough ahead on work that he could waste an afternoon at home, god knows Washington has been all but begging him to take some of his PO time. Today seems like as good of a day as any to say ‘fuck it’ to his responsibilities and just relax. Though that probably won't last long with the speed at which Hamilton’s mind runs. Still, it’s the thought that counts, right?

 

He sets his phone down on the coffee table and reaches up to pull off his shirt. Jefferson would have left for work hours ago so it's not like he’ll come barging in on Alexander changing. He strips of the to big top and tosses it to the floor. As he reaches down to do the same with the sweat pants, his cell buzzes angrily at him once, twice, three times. He quickly scoops it up, un surprises that it’s Laurens. 

_ [OHMYGOD] _

_ [ALEXANDER YOU PIECE OF SHIT IM GOING TO KILL YOU] _

_ [WHERE ARE YOU] _

[Relax John]

[I’m fine. I’m still at Jefferson’s]

The three little dots hover at the bottom of the screen for a moment

_ [ooooooooooh] _

_ [>;) ]  _

_ [So thats how it is] _

[John no, holy shit no. I know what you’re thinking and I want you to stop thinking it right now] 

[The storm last night was bad so I slept here. That’s all.]

_ [I WANT ALL THE DIRTY DETAILS WHEN I GET HOME] _

“Goddamnit” Alexander grunts, tossing his phone onto the sofa. There’s no point in trying to reason with Laurens when he gets like this. Hopefully he won't go around spreading any rumors, Alexander’s reputation is already hanging by a thread and the last thing he needs is for people to think the sex scandal Jefferson’s holding over him is their own. 

_ Though it probably wouldn't be unpleasant if it were the truth.  _

Whow. Hang on. This is still Jefferson he’s thinking about. The man is utter loathsome and a pain in the ass regardless of how  _ nice he smells.  _

Nope. Bad thoughts. 

God, he’s a fucking mess this morning. Alexander kicks off the sweats and strips off the borrowed boxers with vigor, like ridding them from his person will take the thoughts away with them, leaving them as nothing more than a forgotten mess on the floor.  Quickly he dresses in his own cloths, shoves his phone into his pocket, and makes a beeline for the front door, not bothering to pick after himself. It's not like he knows where anything goes anyway and he has a sneaking suspicion that Jefferson wouldn't want him nosing around the house. There’s a key hanging from a hook by the door with another handwritten note on it that simply says “ _ lock up” _

He does so and shoves the key into his pocket. It's heavy with the promise of another sure encounter with its owner. 

 

Once back home, Alexander shuffles through the empty apartment to his room, dropping onto his bed like a stone. Who knew having borderline hypothermia was so exhausting, his muscles still ache. He digs Jefferson’s house key and his phone out if his hoodie pocket and sets them on the nightstand, then pulls the sweater over his head, kicks off his jeans and adds them unceremoniously to his to do pile of laundry. He hadn’t noticed it earlier when he’d been getting dressed, but he has a huge, purpling bruise on his left elbow where he’d cracked it on the bathroom counter. It still stings, Hamilton sighs before laying back against the pillows. 

He’d sent Angelica an email, explaining that he wouldn’t be coming in today, to which she responded with ‘ _ rough night? ;)’   _ He closes his eyes and makes a solid attempt to take a nap, but a pang of annoyance hits him as he remembers. Does everyone just assume him and Jefferson are screwing now?

His brow creases. Of course, Angelica wouldn’t have any idea whose house he’d spent the night at last night. She was just making a generalization, it's him that’s doing the implying. 

He groans deeply, pulling the pillow from beneath his head and pressing it to his face. What’s  _ wrong  _ with him today? Alexander feels completely out of sorts. He chucks the pillow across the room, where it thumps softly against the opposite wall, then swings his legs over the edge of his mattress. Relaxation is overrated anyway. He snatches his laptop from the charger and settles back against the headboard, setting it on his thighs. He starts pursuing his work email with feriosity. 

Stupid Jefferson. With his stupid, arrogant smile and stupid height. Fuck that tall bastard. Fuck him for not signing his bill, fuck him for treating Alexander like more nothing more than a first year intern, and  _ fuck him _ for consuming his every thought. It feels like Jefferson is the only thing he’s been thinking about these past couple of days.  

Nothing new or remotely interesting is going with work. Mulligan sent him an IM, commenting on how quiet it is without him raging around the halls. Washington seems to have already heard about him taking the day off too and sent him a polite email telling him he’s to take as many days as he needs, a nice way of telling Alexander to fuck off for the rest of the week. The rest are just reminders of upcoming events and employee outings. He deletes them. Eliza was the one who’d encouraged him to sign up for the white house newsletter. She’d always tell him how good it’d be for him to get out and socialize, and he did to appease her. But Eliza isn't here now, and he has far too much work to do and never enough time. His energy is better spent with his essays. 

Alexander logs out of his inbox, closes the browser and instead opens up a word document. His fingers stall, hovering an inch above the keys of his computer however. He was going to start on another pre emptive defence for his bill, which is quickly becoming more trouble than it’s worth, when he strikes a brick wall in his train of thought. Alexander tries desperately to pull forth the right words, but he hates every keystroke, eventually deleting each new sentence he produces, glancing down at the little clock in the lower righthand part of the screen he watches minutes quickly accumulating into an hour, an hour and a half, two and a half hours and so on. It feels like there’s a hot iron pike shoved in his frontal lobe, stopping the narrative from flowing. He growls, of all the times to get writers block. It's a plight Hamilton rarely has to deal with but when he does, it's hellish. Words are his everything, he’d rather die then not be able to write. Perhaps that’s bit dramatic but already his nails are digging sharply into the beds of his finger tips with nothing else to occupy them. He gives it a while longer, struggling to scratch together the roughest of outlines, every phrase a hard fought prize, but even those simple words escape him eventually. Alexander grunts, shakes his head, and tries again to put thoughts to paper. But nothing will come. He feels, disconnected, isolated in his own mind and there’s nothing he can do about it. 

Well, that’s not quite true. 

“Fuck it...” He murmurs under his breath. He snaps his computer shut and sets it to the side, before wriggling down the pillows until he’s laying flat on his back. Absentmindedly, he trails his fingers over his stomach. 

The quickest way Alexander has found to rid himself of his writers block is through masturbation. A thorough orgasm tends to knock some things loose and helps him clear his mind. God knows he’s riled up, his confrontations with Jefferson haven't left him feeling satisfied and his inability to write is making him tense. He lets his hand dip beneath the waistband of his boxers, stroking gently. It's a decidedly bad time to be thinking of Jefferson, but it’s hard to think of much else when he’s got a hand down his pants. Hamilton can admire beautiful things, and Jefferson is striking, regardless their relationship. Alexander would be a fucking liar if he said he’d never thought of  _ parts _ of the dark eyed Virginiana before. A wicked smirk, a strong chest, and  long, dexterous fingers working him to the edge are common themes in the male partners of his fantasies. He draws his hand up and down slowly, feeling himself harden against his palm. He’s eyes fall shut as he lets out a sigh. His mind starts to wander.

Alexander can still vividly remember the smell of Jefferson’s skin, almost as though the scent still clings to him. It makes it easy for his imagination to sum up a vision of the man in question, remembering details he hadn’t focused on the night before. Like Jefferson’s hair, wild and in his face, the soft looking ringlets falling in his blazing eyes, bejeweled with glittering drops of water. His plump lips stretched across bleached white teeth in a snarl, or his fingers wound tightly into Hamilton’s hair, the sharp pull on the roots that made his scalp sting. The way Jefferson’s inky black eyelashes curled against the dark skin of his cheeks, almost elegantly as he leaned over to tuck Alexander in. Alexander rushes to pull himself from his boxers, strokes growing more eager now, the muscles in his thighs constricting as pleasure rolls over him in little waves.  He can almost see it in his mind's eyes, Jefferson, with one hand wrapped around his dick, the other moving to gently caress his thigh, all the while watching him with a smug smirk and half lidded eyes. Hamilton moans into the emptiness of his room, collecting pre come from the swollen head with the next pass of his hand. This is different, he’s never so blatantly fantasized about Jefferson before, but now he’s drawing up every angle of his jaw, the elegant curls of his hair. Alexander dips his free hand  down to fondle his unattended balls,  trying to imagine what Jefferson’s hands would feel like on him. He’d probably tease, brush his thumb over the tip of Alexander’s cock and drag his finger nails lightly down his shaft- -  _ ohgodyesjustlikethat-!   _ Hamilton moans like and wanton whore, quick to press a finger into himself as his lower belly jumps with the need to finish. He jerks his hand faster, Jefferson would go slow, drag his fingers up and down Alexander's straining length until he was begging to come, reveling in watching the brunette come undone beneath him. But Alexander has no patience for that. His hips thrust upward into his desperate fist, back onto his waiting fingers,  his stomach convulsing as he draws close to his end.

“ _ Jeff -er -son-!” _  Alexander gasps out, pressing his head back into the pillows with eyes screwed shut. 

He comes, hard and fast, like he does everything, sullying the front of his shirt with thick, ropy ribbons of white. He gives a few more lazy thrust, another flick of his wrist, then Hamilton pulls his hands away, gasping through his post orgasam haze. 

Laying there, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling of his room while he tries to reclaim his breath, Alexander can’t help but feel disgusting. His skin prickles with sweat, a lone bead of it rolling down from his temple into his messy hair. And as he lies there, with come drying on his shirt front, Hamilton can't help  thinking-

_ ‘What the fuck’ _

Never, in all the years he’s known Jefferson, has he ever had such a vivid fantasy, and now here he is, crying out the Virginian’s  name like a horny highschool boy. It freaks him out a little, stroking it to the thought of his political rival and personal waking nightmare. Hamilton swallows down another breath. Okay so maybe he has eyes for Jefferson, but totally in a physical, ‘what’s he hiding in those straight seamed slacks’ kind of way. The man is still  infuriating and his views on just about every subject are wrong. He’s always found Jefferson attractive, his mind was bound to trip up eventually. Besides, he reasons with himself, what he gets off to is his business, nobody needs to know. That resolution doesn’t stop the weird fuzzy feeling in his chest though.

A sudden banging at the door makes Alexander jump, snappening him immediately back into the realm of reality. Who the hell would be here at this time of day? Maybe Laurens forgot his key? No, if that were true  he would have texted Alexander, and his phone lay quietly on the bedside table. Who then? Whoever they are, they knock again, this time with impatient vigor. 

Hamilton groans, awkwardly shifting up onto his elbows. “Give me a second!”

He clamber out of bed, quickly and carefully removing his disgusting shirt. He snatchs another off the floor and slides it over his head, grabbing a pair of green plaid pajama bottoms off his dressed as he makes his way out the room. 

“I hear you, I hear you.” he mutters under his breath, sliding up the pants as he half jogs to the front door. There’s a hairband lying on the coffee table, he grabs it and quickly fastens his hair in a messy knot at the top of his head. It’s not like he’s not trying to impress whoever it is knocking on his door at-  Alexander squints at the clock next to the kitchen. - at five o'clock on a Wednesday. The door is wiggling its frame as the unexpected visitor continues to hammer it. 

“Alright, I’m right here.” he grouses, clicking open the lock.

When he turns the knob and pulls back the door, Jefferson is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed tightly over his chest, default annoyed expression plastered on his face. He must have just come from work because he’s still wearing a- goddamit, does that suit jacket have  _ flowers on it?  -  _  with matching black trousers, a magenta button up and a slick black tie. 

The taller man cast his gaze around the apartment. “Well this isn’t what I expected. It’s no where near the egotistical pits of fashion I would have assumed”

Hamilton’s stomach drops through the floor. A wave of that spicy smell from last night washes over him,  making his legs turn to jello and his ears burn pink. “What the hell are you doing at my apartment!?”

“I had something I wanted to give you today but you weren’t at work.” Jefferson eyes him up and down lazily, no doubt judging his less than presentable state of dress. “Miss Schuyler said you were home sick. Good to see that this- “ he  gestures flippantly at Alexander with a hand. “- is what constitutes as sick nowadays.”

And suddenly Alexander gets what he’s implying. He reeks of sweat and the stench of sex still clings to him, unwilling to relinquish its hold. It’s painfully obvious what he’s been up to. He flushes, heat burning his cheeks and neck. “What do you want Jefferson? Better yet, how did you even know where I live?”

Jefferson’s mouth hitches up in a condescending smirk, clearly pleased that he hit the nail on the head. “How else, I asked dear Angelica. Unlike  _ some people _ , she’s agreeable and helpful. And as for why I’m here Alexander...” The Virginian reaches into his satchel and produces a neat minlia envelope. “This little game got old a while ago.”

Hamilton takes the folder from Jefferson carefully. “Since when did you start calling me Alexander?” he asks, brows furrowing. 

“Since you decided to commandeer my sitting room and sleep on my couch.” he leans in, flashing an impish grin. “I think I’m entitled to call you whatever I want after opening my home to you, you little pissant.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.” Alexander growls.    
Jefferson rolls his eyes. “Please  _ Alexander _ , with how bad you were shivering, you were all but  _ begging _ for my help.”

Hamilton takes an involuntary step back, tightening his grip on the envelope while his stomach does this weird twisty thing that he absolutely doesn’t approve of. 

The state secretary continues, standing at full high once more. “While we’re on the topic, I’d like my house key back now.”

“Of course.” Alexander’s tone is dripping with sarcasm. “Did you want come in? Have a seat maybe? God forbid the great and saintly Thomas Jefferson have to stand a moment longer.” 

“I’m fine right here actually. God only know what’s on your floor and I don’t want to ruin these shoe.” Jefferson quips back. “They’re imported from France you see.”

“Whatever.” Alexander huffs, turning  and setting the folder next to the tv before leaving Jefferson in the doorway to get the key from his room. “And I don’t jack off in the living room, just fyi! I do it in the bedroom, like a civilized human being!”

He quickly grabs the key off the nightstand and trugs back to the livingroom, where Jefferson is still standing, leaned against the doorframe, watching Alexander with something akin to amusement playing over his features. 

“What’s so funny?” he snaps, handing the little silver key to Jefferson.

The taller man just parts his lips in a grin. “Your debt plan.”

“OUT!” Alexander shoves him into the hall then slams the door shut, pressing his palms flat to the cheap wood. Just beyond it, he swears he can he the faint and fading sound of Jefferson’s laughter. His hands ball up into fist against the door. Bastard.

Hamilton leans away from it and takes a few steps back. As he does, a wave of lightheadedness hits him, making his vision sway for a moment. He blinks away the distortion, trying to assess why he feels so faint all of a sudden. It only takes one dismayed gurgle from his stomach to figure it out. He’d done that thing where he forgets to take care of his physical needs, again. Things like eating, and drinking water he’s neglected in his vain attempts to write.  And now it's ten past five and he’s not eaten anything since- last night? No, not since lunch yesterday. Jesus, it’s not the longest he’s gone without eating but still, a full day is still quite a while to go without food, or really anything to drink for that matter. If it weren’t for people like John or Eliza, Hamilton most likely would have died of dehydration by this point. When he gets so wrapped up in his work, in his words, it hard to pull himself away for things as trivial as cooking. Alexander’s empty stomach whines at him again, looking for something, anything to satiate it. He pales, so hungry that he actually feels nauseous. Setting aside the events of the last twelve hours, he wobbles into the kitchen, grabs a glass out of the open dishwasher and fills it with water from the tap. His stomach churns as he takes a gulp, contented for a moment with something in it.

Alexander, sipping slowly at his water,  then shuffles into the bedroom to grab his phone, quickly typing out a text to Laurens.

[ALEXANDER IS HOME AND HUNGRY. I need something to eat NOW or I’m going to start gnawing on the couch.]

It only takes a moment to receive his reply. 

_ [Not again! Hahaha, hang on dude I’ll pick something up on the way home. Is chinese cool] _

[ANYTHING]

Alexander sets the phone back on the night stand, gulps down the rest of his water far too quickly, then scrounges around the room for clean cloths because the sweat dried to his skin makes him feel grubby and he doesn’t want to reek of ejaculation when Laurens gets back. 

He drops a clean pair of basketball shorts (god, he’s really scraping the back of the closet isn’t he) and a King’s College t shirt onto his dresser so he can strip off the sheets on his bed. He gathers them, along with his probably ruined shirt, and makes to take them to the wash. There’s a washer and dryer tucked into a closet right outside Alexander’s room. He dumps everything in, not bothering to sort them, throws in some detergent and sets it to run, desperately ready to be finished with that whole, awkward affair. 

After that’s all taken care of, Alexander grabs his clean clothes and heads to the bathroom. He flips on the shower and steps beneaththe scalding stream of water, scrubbing with vigor as he tries to send the weird, fluttering feeling in his stomach swirling down the drain along with the grime of the past few hours. When he’s done his skin is pink from the abuse. 

He wipes away the condensation from the mirror and takes a moment to examine himself. It’s still him. Same rounded jaw, speckled with peach fuzz he’d somehow managed to cultivate into a goatee. Same dark eyes framed by even darker bags beneath them, giving him the appearance of constantly looking a second away from passing out. His long, brown hair clings in wet strains to his damp skin, the same sallow, muddy beige. Everything's the same, and yet, he has the haunting feeling it’s absolutely not the same at all. The thought makes him feel tired, so instead of dwelling on it, he pulls his shirt over his head.

 

“Yo, Alex! I’m back and I brought California rolls!” he can hear Laurens shouting from the other room. The door slams shut a moment later. “Don’t tell me you starved to death already.”

“Almost did.” Alexander comments cheekily as he exits the bathroom, dragging a weary smile onto his face. 

Laurens is carefully unpacking white cartons of food onto the coffee table. The smell alone makes Hamilton’s mouth water and his stomach burble in anticipation.  He snatches up the closest container and a fork and starts shoving food into his mouth, inhaling it faster then he has time to process what it even is he’s putting in his body. 

Laurens cracks a smile. “You do know that’s my parmesan garlic chicken right?”

He glances down at the container to see that, yes Laurens is right. Alexander positively detests parmesan garlic. He shrugs and continues to devour the chicken within, dropping onto a couch cushion. Laurens follows suit, claiming a carton of rice and the spot next to Hamilton. 

“Sooo?” He’s looking at Alexander expectantly, eyebrows raised and mouth quirked up in a smirk. “Tell me everything.”

Hamilton rolls his eyes, quickly swallowing down a mouthful of chicken. “Oh god, John, seriously, it wasn’t like that. I almost froze to death in that storm, Jefferson let me stay the night. Though, it’s his fault I was out there in the first place so that voids all actions after in my book.”

Laurens snorts. “Talk about anticlimactic.”

“I almost  _ died.” _

It’s John’s turn to roll his eyes. “Alexander Hamilton does not just simply ‘die’”  he reaches across the table for the steaming container of egg rolls. “That can’t be the end of it, come on man, give me something. As a friend who was worried off their ass last night, I have a right to know.”

“There isn’t anything to tell.” Alexander shrugs. “He gave me some tea-”  _ and some clothes, tucked me in, got all close smelling like that and fucked with my brain.  _ “- and then he went to bed.”

“Ok, sure.” Laures passes the egg rolls to Alexander, swapping them with the parmesan chicken. “Did you at least get his signature on your bill?” 

Hamilton jabs his thumb toward the table they use to prop up the tv, where he’d left it. “He came by and dropped it off earlier, but I haven’t looked at it yet.”

Laurens makes a sound in the back of his throat before standing and striding over to pick up the folder. While Hamilton continues to shovel down heaping forkfuls of rice, John pulls back the top of the envelope and shakes out its contents into his hand.

“Uh, Alex?”

“Mmmmm-?”

“You’d better look at this.”

“What is it?” Alexander shuffles towards him, taking the document from Laurens’ outstretched hand. He glances over the first page, eyes immediately widening in horror as he see what Laurens means. The whole first page of his bill is covered in bright red pen, the neatly typed black, block letters overtaken by the swoopping curls of Jefferson handwriting. Whole phrases are crossed out, there are circled words and phrases, and the margins are crammed full of comments and notes, so closely packed together that Hamilton can’t make heads or tails of them. 

“What the actual fuck?” he whispers, flipping to the next page with such haste that the paper crinkles and threatens to tear in his death like grip. All that work, months of work, and Jefferson had ripped it to shreds in a handful of days. Every page is marked up and edited, there’s not a single spot saved from the scarlet proofing pen. 

Laurens is looking at the document over Alexander’s shoulder. “Damn, Jefferson went to town on this thing...”

Hamilton grinds his teeth “What the hell does he expect me to do with this?!” hurriedly he flips to the very back. “He didn’t even sign it, the fucker!” Angrily, he takes the envelope from John and shoves the bill back inside. 

Laurens watches as Hamilton shoves his bare feet into some sneakers. “What are you-? Are you going over there again?”

“If Jefferson thinks he has privilege to edit my work then he’s going to have to explain it to me cause I have no idea what the fuck he wrote, so yeah.” There’s no real rhyme or reason to it as Alexander spirits to his bedroom to gather up his laptop and cell phone, he’s just pissed that Jefferson has blow as many holes in his written work as he does his speeches. Words are his everything, his skill is the only reason he is where he is today, so when the Virginian responds with such heavy edits, it feels like a personal attack. Alexander shoves both the folder and  his computer into his bag and slings it over his shoulder, storming back out into the main room. 

Laurens has gone back to his parmesan chicken.  “Did you need a ride?”

“No, I’ll just take the bus. Don’t wait up for me, I won’t be gone all night.” Alexander shoots over his shoulder as he strides towards the door.

“Kick his ass, babe.”

Jefferson is just about as thrilled as one would expect to see Hamilton on his doorstep at six thirty,  bag hitched up on his shoulder and wearing a scowl. 

He leans against the oak doorframe, arms crossed. He’s changed out of that gaudy suit it would seem, leaving him in only the violently pink button up and dress pants. “I see what they say about stray cats is true. You invite them in once and they’ll keep coming back.” He snorts. “Why don’t you run on off kitten? You’ve ruin one too many of my evenings already.”

“Fuck you Jefferson.” Alexander snaps. Not the best way to start a conversation but, you know, that’s probably fine. “We need to talk about the vandalism of my bill.”

“Ah, you mean my edits.” Jefferson smirks. “Yes, I did leave you a few suggestions on ways to improve your statment. You’re welcome by the way.”

“How am I supposed to make any changes when I have no idea what any of this crap is!? You’ve marked up every inch of it!” Hamilton can feel the heat rising in his face, red and splotchy as he shouts. 

Jefferson is fixing him with a condescending gaze, eyes half lidded as he peers down at Alexander. His lips curls up at the corners in sickly smile. “Exactly.”

Alexander bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from punching the taller man in the stomach. “You’re helping me fix this.” he growls out through gritted teeth.

Jefferson scoffs. “And why would I do that?”

“Because they’re your edits and I can’t read them!”

There’s a beat of silence between them and for a second Alexander swears he sees something flash in the other man’s dark eyes, a flicker of uncertainty perhaps, but it passes too quickly for him to be sure. 

Jefferson sighs heavily, his shoulders sag as the tension ebbs out of them. “You’re not going to leave until I help, are you?”

“What do you think?” Alexander snaps back.

“Then you had better come inside.” Jefferson mutters, pushing off the door frame and taking a few steps into the house.

Hamilton however, hovers on the steps, unabashedly shocked by his rivals change of demeanour. “Just like that?”

The other man shoots him a lazy glare over his shoulder. “I find no joy in preening over you like a mother hen simply because you lack common sense and I refuse to incite another incident like last night.  Now, get your ass in here before I change my mind.”

The secretary of state hurries after Jefferson, still shocked at how easily he’s  relented.

He follows him into the same sitting room Alexander had woken up in this morning. The blankets are all neatly folded and stacked in wicker baskets in the corner, a glass, half full of wine sits next to its companion bottle on the square coffee table, a battered copy of  _ War and Peace _ beside them both. The virginian motions for him to sit on the cream colored sofa, and he does so with no comment.

“I’ll go fetch you a glass.” he says tightly, dragging his hand over the back of the couch as he makes his leave.

“Why?” Alexander snaps his head towards Jefferson.

Jefferson shrugs. “Because if I’m forced to tolerate you this evening, I figure we might as well both be drinking.”

Hamilton huffs under his breath as Jefferson exits. He reaches into his satchel and pulls out his laptop and bill and sets both on the coffee table. His eyes wander over to the book beside them. It’s worn, the spine is bent back and broken, clearly it’s seen much use. Curiosity getting the better of him, Alexander picks up the book, tuning in over slowly in his hands. Judging by the stiff cover and lettering on the spine, the book looks like a first edition. Of course, Jefferson would have the best of everything, including books. As much as he wants to be pissed by the snobbishness of it, he can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy as he grazes his fingers over the cover. What he wouldn’t give to have the luxury of such a beautiful book. He opens it up, fully intending to peruse the novel, but something on the inside cover catches his eye. Small, bubbling letters are pressed into the soft parchment on the cover’s back, they read:

_ ‘My dearest Thomas, _

_ I spend each passing day anticipating your return with baited breath. Until  we can see eachother again, I hope you find comfort in this little slice of home.’ _

There’s no signature, but solly based on the handwriting it seems fair to assume that it was written by a women. Hamilton has no clue as to who that might be though. He doesn’t get time to ponder it further, as he can hear the gentle thump of Jefferson’s footfalls on the hardwood. Inexplicable panic shoots down Alexander’s spine, though he’s done nothing wrong. He snaps the book shut just as the other man reenter the room, tossing the novel haphazardly back onto the table. 

Jefferson pauses about a foot from the couch, his gaze darting between the skewed book and Alexander's guilty expression. His eyes narrow dangerously. He sets the long stemmed wine glass he’s hold down beside the other, then snatchs the novel off the table. The way he cradles it to his chest, almost protectively, is a stark juxtaposition given the weathered state of its cover. 

“Don’t touch my stuff” Jefferson snaps, thumb running carefully across the book's spine. “I don’t want your grubby hands on my things”

He places it on the mantle of his fire place, rather than sliding it in amongst the rest of books that line the opposite wall, upright with the spine out. 

Hamilton scoffs, it’s not like he’d done it any harm. Instead of verbalising this, he simply flips open his computer and pulls up the document containing his bill. As he does this, Jefferson lowers himself onto the spot next to him. Alexander can feel the shift in the cushions as the other man leans forward, sees him filling up the second wine glass out of the corner of his eye. 

He sets the computer in his lap“Where should I start with this mess?” He asks sharply, trying to counter the almost familiar atmosphere that has settled between them. The way Jefferson hands him his glass far too friendly for his liking, he tries to ignore how the other’s fingers look wrapped around the stem of it. Alexander places it right back on the table, needing both hands to be free if he’s to type.

“At the beginning, obviously” Jefferson retorts, slinging his right arm over the back of the sofa, reclining back. “The only way to produce an intelligent and insightful piece of legislation is to have a fundamentally sound foundation.”

“I know that.” He snaps back,  because Jefferson’s tone is way to- normal. It's not laced with disdain or anger or tension. It sounds like he’s talking with any other person, not the man he’s been political rivals with for four years now. Maybe it's the fact that he’s in his own home, or maybe it's because he’s had something to drink that making Jefferson act like this, but this casual conversation makes Alexander squirm in his seat. 

He snatchs the edited copy of the document off the coffee table and starts the headache inducing task of deciphering Jefferson’s notes. It takes time, but with some effort Hamilton is able to work through some of the corrections. They’re interlaced with insults and petty jabs but for the most part the corrections are insightful, though he’ll sooner die than admit that to the Virginian. As he works, Jefferson watches him, taking an occasional sip of his wine

Eventually, Hamilton comes to a part on the second page that makes his brows knit together. “What the hell is this?” 

“What’s what? Alexander, use your words.” Jefferson asks with an amused lilt in his voice. 

Annoyed,Hamilton shakes the paper violently. “This! This part right here.You didn’t eloborate proporly.” 

Jefferson rolls his eyes languidly, lips pulling thin around a weirry scowl.“What is it that’s giving you trouble?” he sighs

Hamilton makes to open his mouth to comment but instead, draws in a deep breath as the taller man slides towards him across the cushions.  He tucks one leg under himself,  the arm still draped across the back of the sofa curling dangerously close to Hamilton’s shoulders.Their knees knock together and he can feel Jefferson’s  face only a handful of inches from his, peering over his shoulder at the screen and, god, he still smells intoxicating. Does he bathe himself in that cologne? How can it still be so pungent by the end of the day. The spicy, rich scent gives him a headrush and momentarily derails his train of thought, leaving him to stutter out a response.

“I- it-”he coughs, scooting closer to the armrest and away from Jefferson. “Right here.” he gestures vaguely at the screen, cursing himself for the hesitation and the heat creeping up his neck.

Jefferson leans in a hair closer, squinting at the screen while Alexander pointly looks in the opposite direction, instead studying the intricate patterns of the pearly wallpaper.

“Did I not explain it well enough, or are you just thicker than I assumed?” Jefferson quips and the other man almost lets out an audible sigh of relief as some semblance of their usual banter returns. The string drawn tight around Alexander’s lungs loosens a bit as the weird tension between them ebbs, however slightly. The Virginian pays him no mind, far more intent it would seem, on discrediting Hamilton’s work. “You can’t expect the national treasury to subsidise all the cost of your plan. The proposal you’ve made is an outlandish request of government’s funds. Where would you get the money to cover these extraneous costs?”

“Well obviously, what does the government usually do when it need to increase the size of its wealth?” Hamilton retorts smugly. “We would have to increase tax percentages.”

“And what tax would you suggest we increase, that won’t result in opposition from the masses?”  he can tell by the biting edge in his tone that Jefferson is growing frustrated. 

“I already elaborated on that in section five of the  third paragraph.” he says, shooting Jefferson a smug grin of his own. “Honestly Jefferson, did you even  _ read _ my proposal? Or perhaps the way in which I phrased it confused you.”

Jefferson leans in impossible closer, challenge swirling in his dark eyes. “Just remember Hamilton, I’m not the one who came here begging for help”

His stomach convulses at the proximity but Alexander swallows down the feeling, his salvia suddenly thick. This is unacceptable, how is he suppose to get any work done if he keeps letting his raging bisextuality get in the way? It’s never been an issue before. 

He draws himself to his full height, jutting out his chin defiantly. “The day I beg you for something is the day I’ll refute my own debt plan. Now, if we could continue.”

 

They spend the next three hours bicking over the changes Jefferson had called for. The conversation has all the energy and intensity of any of their House debates but it lacks the violent tension. Alexander only has the urge to break his untouched wine glass over the other man’s head once, and that was because he’d mocked the way Hamilton had phrased his approach to implementing his plan. At nine thirty Jefferson forces him out the front door, though only half of the bill had been attended to. He’d pushed him out by the shoulders, claiming in a slow drawl that once the wine is gone, Alexander should be to. 

This doesn’t, of course, stop Alexander from working on his own when he gets home. He retires to his room and muddles through the rest of the note best he can. At four in the morning the sharp tap of keystrokes stops. Alexander rubs his palm fervently over his eyes and attaches  the document to an email and sends it to Jefferson, before collapsing across the bedspread without turning off his computer. 


	5. A Million Things he Didn't Want to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It- was just suppose to be dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'MMMM SOOOORRY (not really tho)  
> All of you who have been leaving comments are just the sweetest, thank you all! <3   
> And as always, a huge, gigantic THANK YOU to Ham-for-Ham and Clebimebi for beta reading this, I would be lost without the two of you!!!

The email is the beginning of a long chain of correspondence between the politically opposed men. Jefferson responded to Hamilton’s changes by the end of the day, making more edits of his own before sending it back for re reading. And somehow, they fall into a pattern, communicating via email, forging an imitation of a working relationship with every message exchanged. It’s by no means a kind relationship, Alexander wouldn’t go so far as to call it friendly, he’s not that naive or forgiving. The best way he can think to describe it is cordial, respectful in a way that only brilliant minds can be when there’s work to be done, the respect that is shared between writers. This goes on for a week, Alexander throws himself into the reforging of his bill like he does any passion project. He spends his limited time from when he gets off of work to when he forces himself to  sleep at least a few hours, holed up in his room, hunched over his computer.  Laurens is sure to coax him out to make him eat and Hamilton does so begrudgingly, but even as he shoves rice and beans down his throat by the forkfuls his mind is back at the keyboard, imagining the  next three pages of his argument. 

It’s exhilarating, to have someone so well spoken and opinionated to bounce ideas off of, even if it's Jefferson and all his opinions are wrong. Alexander gets almost giddy when he sees a new draft of the legislation in his inbox, ready to tear down every new front the other has poised. They hardly speak face to face in these couple of days, outside of the usually cabinet meetings of course. The only time any in person confrontation is needed is when Hamilton feels Jefferson has gone too far with one of his changes. He barges into Jefferson’s office and shouts until he’s red in the face, until they’ve both exhausted their voices and thoroughly frightened any new staff who’s unaccustomed to the way they deal with each other. Then they hash out a compromise that neither is thrilled with but can at least both agree is beneficial to the legislation they’re creating. A good verbal thrashing is sometimes what is required to overcome an impasse in ideology.

At least that how Hamilton rationalizes  his decision to go marching down to Jefferson’s office today, in the middle of work hours. He’d sent the infuriating Virginian the updated draft last night and what he had gotten back was appalling. The man had suggested he  delete an entire page of writing, a whole night's worth of words. It’s baffling, and a little more than upsetting, seeing as he’s drafted it to cover a hole in logic that Jefferson had made.

Alexander strides briskly into the office, totally oblivious to the fact that it’s dark and empty until he’s halfway through the door. He frowns. Then he turns on his heel and goes to seek out Jefferson’s secretary. He’s a middle aged man sitting behind a clucky pho wood desk in the room next door, whose name Alexander can’t recall at the moment.

“Where’s Jefferson?” he asks, folding his arms tightly over his chest.

The man jumps, in all the visits he’s paid to State Secretary's office, Hamilton has never addressed the man. To be quite honest, all those times he was probably far too full of rage to even notice him. “Secretary Jefferson has a meeting with foreign delegations today, sir.”

Hamilton gives a loud exasperated huff that makes the other man start. “No it’s not you, Jefferson’s just a peice of shit. What time will he be back?”

Peter, he’d spied the name on his gleaming nameplate, blinks. “He’ll- he shouldn't back until the end of the day sir. He told me not to take anymore meetings for him today. Said he was going to go home right after work. I was actually just about to go home myself, sir, after I’d finished up these reports. I could leave a message for him, if you’d like mister Secretary.”

“Yeah, let’s do that.” Hamilton bristles. “Tell Secretary Jefferson that his newest addition to the draft is ridiculous, and I'm going to kick his conservative ass.”

 

This doesn't leave him feeling satisfied however. He’d been geared up for an all out brawl and walked away with only a growing pit of annoyance in his gut. Its enough to distract him from his work, Alexander hates leaving things unfinished and the untouched emails he’s sent make him more famished for a response. He wants this sorted out tonight, which is why, after he’s muddled through the simple, daily paperwork that comes with being Treasury Secretary, Hamilton text Laurens not to pick him up tonight, gathers up his belonging, and heads for the bus stop a block or so from the building. Once he’s on and situated in a plastic seat in the back, he whips out his phone. The lock screen tells him it's just a quarter after six. He quickly shoots a text to Jefferson

[Are you home yet?]

It takes a while for him to get a response, almost like Jefferson saw the text and thought about just ignoring it, before changing his mind. Honestly, that’s probably the case. 

_ [I just got back. Why?] _

[I’ll be there in ten minutes]

_ [Hamilton. No.] _

[Too late, I’m already on the bus. See you in nine]

Nine minutes later Alexander’s off the bus and half jogging down the sidewalk to Jefferson’s house, having constructed at least four more valid arguments for his case and not wanting to lose them before they can even make it to paper. He knocks enthusiastically on the door, until he can hear muffled swearing. That makes him grin. A moment later Jefferson is pulling open the door and Hamilton is slipping inside, words already falling from his mouth in a whirlwind. 

“You can’t honestly be serious about having me remove that new page.” he begins, feet as fast as his tongue as he traipses towards the sitting room he’s grown so familiar with.  “I know you have knack for being infallibly wrong most of the time, but I never took you for a complete imbecile.”

Jefferson is following close behind. “Alexander.” is his dry response.  A levee trying to stem the flood that has just entered his home.

As usual, Alexander pays it no mind. “The solution you suggested only creates more issues. Though, alright, I can understand the fundamental need to strengthen the system internally-”

“Alexander”

“- But if we use your proposed method, we’d basically be reverting back to the feudal system, which is fucking ridiculous for obvious reasons-”

“Alexander”

“-which is why I added this ne-”

“Hamilton!” Jefferson grabs the smaller man’s shoulders, effectively stopping his tirade as he spins him around. “Please” he squeezes Alexander's shoulders, practically stealing his breath away. “For the love of god. Shut. UP” 

Alexander blinks up at him. For the first time since he’d stormed into the house, he really looks at Jefferson. The man looks exhausted, striking features drawn tight with clearly definable annoyance.

He rubs a hand across his forehead. “I’ve had a very hard day, and you barging in here, uninvited I might remind you, doesn’t help. I was in the middle of making dinner when you arrived, I’m not talking politics now.”

“But-” Hamilton tries, but he’s cut off by one of Jefferson’s long fingers in his face.

“No. I’m starving and it doesn’t look like you’ve eaten properly in days. You’re not going to argue this with me Alexander. You’re having  dinner with me. ”

Alexander puffs up his chest, ready to argue and whine, and tell Jefferson that he’s not the boss of him, but the stern look plastered on the other’s face makes him change his mind. He scoffs. “Fine, but only because I imagine you’re twice as intolerable when you’re hungry.”

Jefferson flashes him a dazzling, contemptuous grin, before dropping  his remain hand from his shoulder. “Wait, here.” he then turns and strides briskly from the room. “I’ll call you when supper is done.”

Alexander huffs, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and takes a few steps back before his knees hit the edge of the sofa. “There is nobody in the world who still calls it supper, jackass!” he shouts after him.

He turns in a wide arch, gaze darting across the room for something of interest. Of all the times he’s been here, all three of them, Alexander hadn’t bother to take in the room much more then in quick glance. Now he has time to fully appreciate how grand, and utterly ridiculous it is. He’s no architect, but all the furniture has a definite french feel to it. The off white sofa with its bowed back and glossy fabric to the squat, intricately carve legs of the tables and patterned lamp shades with ruffles and frills. Jefferson must buy new pieces every time he visits. There’s  an afghan draped over the arm of the sofa, the rough, handmade look of it clashes horribly with the rest of the room’s aesthetic. The worn copy of War and Peace is laying on a cushion too. How many times has Jefferson read it to get it to such a weathered state, he wonders.  The walls are the same cream color as the couch, decorated with pearly floral patterns that run their length. Opposite the door is a large fireplace made out of what would appear to white marble, but what catches Alexander’s eye is the row of tall bookcases lining the wall just left of the open archway. They stand from floor to ceiling, made of the same dark wood as the hardwood that peeks out from beneath a large, ornate rug.

Hamilton wanders over, glossing his fingertips reverently over the spines of the books as he inspects them. Most, if not all, appear to be first additions, with heavy covers and golden lettering down their sides. Such classics like, Macbeth, King Leer, Thomas Paine’s Common Sense, and The Leviathan by Hobbes. Some more contemporary novels are mixed in, the top most shelf boast a large collection of Hemingway and he smirks when he sees the Harry Potter books tucked away near the bottom. The lowest shelf  is filled with glossy encyclopedias that died with the birth of the internet but, damn if they don’t make Alexander’s mouth water. He lets his hand drag over their backs as he walks, envy curling in his chest. He’d do anything for such a marvelous collection of knowledge, it’s such a shame it’s being wasted on Jefferson and his wealth, lining the walls of his sitting room, gathering dust just so the ass can woo guests with them. He snorts at the thought of Jefferson, waving a modest hand over the collection, commenting on how he wish he had more time to read them. Hamilton would get far better use out of beautiful books such as these. 

The shelves end where the fireplace begins. The hearth is empty and cold at the moment, so Alexander fixes his gaze on the mantle. The first thing he notices is a silver picture frame surrounded by a cluster of blossoming flowers. The surface is devoid of any other ornamentation, which piques his curiosity, he moves to inspect the frame closer. It contains a picture of a girl, more accurately a young woman. She has dark brown eyes, almost totally black because any other color would make her look far too intense, and her skin is a soft, lovely shade of  coffee, one that Jefferson might order, rich like mocha. She smiles out at Alexander through eyelashes that must have been drawn on with a fine feather pen, her teeth all perfectly rounded and white. Her lips are full and painted with a pale pink gloss. The only imperfection he can find is a split in the delicate arch of her right eyebrow, but honestly, the flaw only adds to her beauty. He finds himself staring. 

Who is she? Hamilton’s not quite sure. He’s only ever cared about Jefferson’s political views, he doesn’t have an interest  in his personal life, outside of the cabinet.  _ Not until recently, _ a little voice reminds him and he huffs. Still, who could she be?  A sister. A  cousin. Or maybe a girlfriend? 

He swallows down a lump that has formed in the back of his throat. Surely it’s not his wife. He’s known Jefferson for close to four years now and never in that time has he mentioned a spouse. If he were married, it would have come up at some point, the virginian would have been bound to mention her in passing, in some off hand comment about his dinner plans. He doesn’t wear a ring either and this girl has never accompanied him to any galas or other important events, Jefferson always either comes alone or with Madison at his heels. So maybe she’s a more recent addition to his life, like a girlfriend. Or a fiancee... 

Alexander’s fingers twist absentmindedly around the discolored strip of skin on his left ring finger as his heart throbs. Best not to dwell on engagements. 

“Hamilton, get your ass in here before the food gets cold!” Jefferson calls, his voice echoing from down the hall. 

He rolls his eyes. “I’m coming!” Alexander spares one last look at the beautiful, mystery girl, before he turns and tries to navigate his way to where Jefferson is. 

The townhouse is grand but it's not large, it doesn’t take the brunette long to find him, sitting in a cramped dining room. The table has a wood frame and glass top and is probably only that big out of necessity to entertain large numbers of people. Jefferson is sitting just right of the head of the table, and he’s set a place for Alexander directly across. He pulls out his chair and Jefferson winks up at him. 

“Bon appetit, my dear Alexander.” he says with a smile, reaching over to fill Hamilton’s glass with sherry.

“Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me.” Alexander groans, seeing what’s sitting on his plate. “Are you really feeding me mac and cheese?”

Jefferson makes a clucking noise with his tongue. “Obviously your palette is as expansive as your political views. This is macaroni aux four.”

“I don’t care how many spices you add to it, it's still veleta.” Alexander grumbles, picking up his fork and skewering some noodles on the end. He tries to ignore the way Jefferson is staring at him, watching him with half lidded eyes and a lazy smirk that makes Hamilton’s stomach squirm in that fluttery sort of way that makes him want to punch himself in the chest. Casting his gaze down, he starts to inspect the grain of the wood siding, shoving the food into his mouth to occupy it.

“What do you think?” the taller man asks, leaning his chin onto the back of his hand. “Better than sex, right?” he practically purrs the last part out, making Alexander choke as a hot pang of arousal shoots through him. How dare Jefferson’s voice be so deep and full of implication. He’s got no damn right to sound so casually debauched. _ Fucker.  _

‘What?!” Hamilton crokes, still hacking out his lung in a horribly unattractive manner.

Jefferson’s grin widens and he lets out a breathy laugh, . “Just trying to put it in terms you’ll understand.” his dark eyes glinted mischievously. He picks up his own fork with grace, digging into the food before him. “Really though, I’ll put money on that it outcompetes your boy toy Laurens.”

“What are you talking about.” Alexander asks with disinterest, picking at his plate.

“Aren't you and that lawyer roommate of yours screwing?” Jefferson asks, carefully sliding his fork into his mouth

“No, of course not.” Hamilton responds, eyes hardening with indignation.

“Oh, my bad.” the corners of Jefferson’s mouth quirk up in a crooked smirk. He let’s his gaze drop to his plate. “I just assumed because you fuck anything that moves.”

Hamilton’s grip tightens around his fork, the edges biting into his palm. “Excuse me?!” 

Jefferson merely shrugs. “You do have a certain reputation around the Hill after that- sticky affair. What was her name again?” Alexander’s shoulders tense, squaring up at his ears, but Jefferson looks positively delighted. There’s a wild, almost crazed glee sparkling in his eyes as he continues. “Miss Maria Reynolds I think it was, the poor girl. But probably better off than your Elizabeth though. I heard, she learned about it from the tabloids, read about the whole thing before she even knew it was happening in her bed. And she’s such shy girl too, imagine her shock when her private affairs are the front page of every newspaper in Washington. How many months away was the wedding? Two? Three?” he lets the questions hang heavy in the air while he takes a sip of his sherry.  “I suppose she’s lucky though, that you didn’t shame her as your wife. Like your father did.”

White hot rage spikes in Alexander’s gut like an electric shock. He doesn’t know where all this is coming from, why Jefferson has the sudden urge to cruelly twist the knife still embedded deep in his chest. He knows he did Eliza wrong, everyday he wishes he could take back what he’d done, undo the pain he’d caused her, but who the hell gave this asshole the right to bring up his family.

“Dear old dad left when you were just a kid, didn’t he? Abandoned you and left your mother with only shame and debt and ruin, least that’s what they say. Turns out you're a scoundrel like your daddy was before you.  Seems to me like the Hamilton’s can’t keep it in their pants.”

“SHUT UP!”Alexander slams his fist down on the table with a startling bang, making the glasses shiver and silverware clatter. His chest is heaving with raw emotion, blood running both hot and cold as his ears ring with static. “Don’t you EVER think you understand me! Don’t you EVER-’ he takes a suddering breath as his lungs scream at him for more air. “EVER think you know me! You don’t know ANYTHING! You don’t know ANYTHING about me.! I’m NOTHING like my bastard father! NOTHING! You fuck- you fucking DICK!” he braces his hands on the edge of the tabletop, desperate to temper his rage.  He has the strong urge to throw his glass, his plate, to stab his fork into the wood he’s gripping so tightly. He wants to destroy, just so there’s some physical repesation of his wrecked insides, to break and mame. It’s hardly rational, borderline insane really, but Alexander just wants _ something _ , needs something visible and tagible. Instead of vaulting over the table and punching Jefferson in the face, he wraps his arms tightly around himself, fingernails biting through the thin fabric of his work shirt and pressing crest moons into his biceps. 

“You don’t know what I am.” his voice is nothing more then a sharp hiss, quivering with self restraint. He practically gasping, his whole body rigid and shaking with emotion, vision black at the edges.

The silence that engulfs the room is so thick and tense that it’s almost painful, the only sound is Hamilton’s ragged breathing. Slowy, he starts to settle,  backing away from the ledge. He swallows thickly, glaring down at his plate while the violent flush fades from his cheeks and ears and neck. How long they sit in that agonizing silence, Alexander’s not sure, it could be ten seconds or ten minutes, he’s too exhausted to care, but Jefferson is the one to break it.

“I’m sorry.” comes his strained voice from across the table.

Alexander whips his head up so fast that the muscles spark with pain. “What?”

Jefferson is watching him, looking- pained? scared? empathetic? None of these seem likely, but the way he presses his lips together in a thin line, he looks down right sincer. “I know when I’m being a bastard and- that was over the line. I’m sorry Hamilton.”

Alexander searches his face for any signs of deceit, a twitch in corner of Jefferson’s mouth or a malicious curve in his brow that might betray his words. There is none. There’s only Jefferson, staring at him with an uncharacteristically honest expression that makes his stomach churn. He drops his gaze back to his plate.

Another long stretch of silence.

“Eat” Jefferson says forcefully.  “You look like a corpse.”

Numbly, Alexander picks up the fork he hadn’t realized he’d discarded. His guts are twisted tight, making the idea of food downright repulsive, but he scoops up some noodles anyway, They taste like sawdust in his mouth. He forces himself to swallow, still refusing to meet Jefferson gaze, more so out of fear then indignation. He’s scared that if he looks up, the other man will still be dissecting his moves with worried eyes. Scared, because he doesn’t know what that look means, where it fits in the pathetically hobbled together relationship they have and because he can’t explain why it’s there. Just like he can’t explain why he apologized, because Thomas Jefferson never apologizes to anyone, least of all Hamilton, and he certainly doesn’t do it with such raw sincerity. It’s a jarring feeling, to hear Jefferson’s voice without the sarcastic pull on the edges of each word. Alexander shoves another forkful into his mouth, chewing slowly. 

Somehow he manages to clear his plate, and when he’s done he set his fork on it with a gentle clink. He’s not sure what to do with himself, he does feel a little better after eating, Jefferson wasn’t wrong in his thinking, Hamilton hasn't had a proper meal in at least three days.

Alexander shoves the empty plate away. “-Thanks, i guess.”

“Don't think you’re done yet Hamilton.” Jefferson says, his usual drawl rolling off his tongue, prompting Alexander to look up. The other man is leaning on his elbows, smirking like he always does, as if the last fifteen minutes hadn’t happened, and Alexander is relieved. “You’ve got two hands that aren't broken, you can help me with the dishes. Come on, grab your plate.” with that, Jefferson stands, sweeping his dishes of the table.

Hamilton follows suit, walking a couple paces behind the virginian as he leads him into the connecting room. It’s a simple, open kitchen that looks like the front of a Better Homes and Gardens magazine. Everything is a soft yellow or white  and a large window takes up most of the far wall. Counters run along the walls opposite it, littered with homely items, like a spice rack, a bread box, a block with black handled knives stuck in it. 

“Where’s the dishwasher?” Hamilton asks.

Jefferson strides over to the sink, setting his dirty dishes down on its ledge before pulling two small clothes from a drawer. “Don”t have one”

His jaw slacks. “Who the hell doesn’t have a dishwasher in this century?” Alexander joins Jefferson at the sink.

He’s filling the silver basin with soap and water, a small smile playing over his lips. “I don’t need one” he shrugs. “I’m perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself, and James doesn’t mind when he comes over.” 

Alexander scoffs. “I wouldn’t take you for the type. Aren’t menial tasks like this beneath you?”

“Momma taught me how a good southern boy is expected to act.” he say sweetly, laying on his accent thick. It makes Hamilton involuntarily shudder. Jefferson then hands a dishcloth to him. “You dry, I’ll wash.”

A weirdly companionable kind of quiet blankets them as Jefferson scrubs the cheesy residue from a plate, then passes it to Alexander. It’s so, domestic, and Hamilton does so hate the quiet.

“There’s a picture of woman on your mantle.” he says, and as he does, he catches Jefferson’s hand stall out of his peripheral, but only for a moment. Alexander turn his head so he can watch Jefferson's profile. “Who is she?” 

Then other man doesn’t lift his eyes for the plate he’s washing and for a moment, Alexander is actually concerned that he overstep some boundaries. But after a beat Jefferson draws in a breath to answer.

“That would be Martha, my wife.” he says carefully.

Alexander’s eyes flicker down to Jefferson’s sudsy hands to see if he can spy a flash of silver against the other’s skin. “I didn’t know you were married”

Jefferson chuckles weakly. “Of course you wouldn’t...” he breaths, rubbing his thumb in slow circles over the porcelain plate. “How could you. She died a year before we met.”

“Oh.” Hamilton says, dumbly

Oh- because how else do you respond to finding out your rival's wife is dead. What else can you say when information like that is dropped on you. When someone you’ve known for years tells you- oh- their spouse passed away almost five years ago and you never even knew they were married in the first place. And you’re standing with them in their kitchen, washing dishes and they still havn’t looked your way, and their still scrubbing the same plate, though the soap is gone now.

“Oh” Alexander bites his lip. He should says something. Not ‘sorry’ because Jefferson doesn’t need or want the pity of a man he can barely tolerate. Besides, he’s never met Martha,  the words would be hollow and meaningless, so instead he asks. “How did she die?”

Jefferson shrugs and Alexander notices, can’t believes he notices it, that his features look even more exhausted than when he’d arrived. “She got sick.” gingerly he hands the well cleaned plate to Hamilton. “She was always sickly. You never would have guessed it though. She was a spitfire, that one, my Martha.” his lips curls upwards softy, forming the words ‘my Martha’ almost reverently. “She was, like the beginning of a storm. You could always tell when she was gettin mad, her eyes would flash like lightning on the horizon of the sea. The waring in her voice beating like little waves on the shore. Her cheeks would puff up right before she would give it to me, and she did that a lot. Always kept me in line, always let me know when I’d gone to far. Matha is- was, the love of my life” 

Alexander is almost transfixed as he listens, utterly speechless for a rare moment. He watches the way Jefferson’s mouth pulls up in a weary smile, swept away in his blissful remoniceing. Dark eyes twinkling with nostalgia, though there’s clearly still pain behind it, and Hamilton doesn’t dare try to cut him off. The grin slowly fades after a moment, leaving the taller man looking older, lips turned down in sour line. 

“She got sick one day and she- just never got better...” Jefferson trails off, staring hard at the plate in his hands. The water rushing from the faucet is deafening. “I was there when she- passed on. I was holding her hand when she-” his voice is hardly a whisper.  Then he coughs loudly into the crook of his shoulder and Alexander practically jumps out of his skin.

Jefferson starts scrubbing away at the silverware with haste. “I’ve never told anyone but James that before.” he admits, still, pointedly not looking at Alexander. Alexander wishes he would. “Don’t go gabbing about it around the office, the last thing I want is pity, it’s cheap.”

“I wouldn’t.” Hamilton says, and he really, really means it. He knows exactly how Jefferson is feeling. He’d fallen asleep in his mother’s hospital bed the night she’d died. They were both so sick, but she’d sang him a lullaby, and in the morning she was gone. He wishes Jefferson would just look at him.

“Why don’t you go Hamilton, I can handle the rest of these myself.” Jefferson’s voice is tight as he says it, shoulders trembling slightly.

Alexander nods once and hurries from the kitchen, pretending he didn’t see tears clinging to the other man’s lashes or heard a strangled sob as the door swung closed. For Jefferson’s sake he pretends. 

 

He finds himself back in the sitting room, back in front of Martha’s picture. Alexander stares hard at the woman in the frame, sweeping his gaze over her face. He can see it now that Jefferson has pointed it out, she does look frail. The skin beneath her eyes is slightly sunken in and discolored. One wouldn’t notice it unless they were looking. She beams out at him still, the curls of her hair falling softly over her shoulders, beautiful despite the hint of fatigue in her deep eyes. 

_ Like a storm  _ Jefferson had said,  _ my Martha. _

Somewhere in the pits of Alexander’s stomach, something sick and slimy stirs, as he thinks back to how the other man had formed the words. With gentle admiration, lips curling carefully around  _ Martha,  _ clearly devoted. His eyes were so open while he talked about her. Why didn’t he ever look at Alexander that way? The thought sits heavy and hot in his gut. What could he do to earn such imploring looks, what’s wrong with him? He misses being looked at so lovingly, why should a memory be that much more adored than him? That thought makes his blood chill and momentarily stills the disgustingly ravenous twisting in his chest, as he pinpoints exactly what it is he’s feeling. 

Jealousy. Horrid, misdirected jealousy of Jefferson’s dead wife. Hamilton feels sick, to think he’s so envious of a dead woman is aplorable. And what makes it worst, in his eyes at least, is that he can’t deny that he wishes Jefferson would speak as reverently of him.  This woman, Martha, got to spend her nights by his side, and hold his hand, and kiss him, while Hamilton’s bed is cold and empty. It doesn’t feel fair. And, yes, he realises, only slightly belatedly, that he’s wishing that it could be him that shared in those sweet moments with the Virginian. He’s past the point of being able to deny it anymore. Alexander’s so lonely, so tired of not being loved and not being in love, and as insufferable as Jefferson can be, he can’t stop his chest from fluttering when they’re together. Maybe it’s something that was always there, although that feels unlikely, or maybe it’s a new perspective, but one thing is clear, he was doomed when the man brought him in from that storm. He’s not going to label what he’s feeling as love though, because this is the real world and just because the prospect of another person makes your palms sweat doesn’t mean you’re in love with them. It just can’t. Because the admission that he has any feelings towards Jefferson other than loathing is already a cosmic revelation and makes his head feel strange. No, that part he’ll argue. He’s most certainly  _ not _ in love with Jefferson, love is reserved for special people, like Martha and his Eliza. It’s not love, Alexander just wants to be held again, and Jefferson is beautiful and smart and not totally evil, as he’s come to understand. There’s more to him then incorrect political assumptions, it’s only taken Hamilton four years to recognize that.

He pulls the band from his hair so he can run his hands through it viciously.

He's screwed.

“You’re still here?” the sound of Jefferson in the doorway makes his heart jump up to his throat, effectively strangling Alexander.  All he can do is stare owlishly at the other man as he tries to swallow it back down. The way the shadows fall over his face from this distance make it impossible for Alexander to get a good look at his face, but his posture is haggard as Jefferson hovers is the doorway. He’s never seen the towering man look so small. 

Jefferson let’s out a hefty sign. “Listen Alexander, I get you have issues with the bill, but I’m not in the mood to debate with you tonight. I have a really bad-” he pauses, like the act of speaking is exhausting. “ -migraine coming on and I want to go to bed.”  he shuffles over to the sofa and snatches that weathered War and Peace novel off it. Hamilton still can’t find the right words so Jefferson turns on his heel.

“We’ll discuss it tomorrow.” He tosses over his shoulder. “Let yourself out.”

And as Alexander shuffles towards the bus stop in the fading evening light, he ponders how pathetic is it to be envious of a book.

 


	6. Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alexander is forced to realize that he maybe doesn't hate Jefferson, like, at all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely Ham-for-Ham and the incredible Clebimebi for bate reading this for me, as always. And a huge thank you to everyone who's commented or left kudos, I love to here what you guys think!!!

Sitting at his desk the following Thursday, Hamilton has never been so thankful for mindless paperwork before, it provides him an excellent distraction from the raging in his mind, as every fiber in his body tries, and fails horribly, to dissuade him of his feelings. He groans and buries his head in his hands, disgusted by the word.   _ Feelings,  _ such a simple, uninspired word, a base term a grade schooler might use, and yet he, with his vast wealth of them, can’t think of anything else to describe what this new mess is. He has  _ feelings  _ for  _ Jefferson,  _ the knowledge fills him with both repulsion and nervous glee. Jefferson can’t know though, which in and of itself is one of the dismal realizations he’d come to last night, as he stared at his ceiling instead of sleeping like a sane person. But, he must be insane if he’s admitting his unrequited puppy love for Thomas fucking Jefferson, Washington’s biggest douchebag. He’d laid there and made an itemized list of every way this fact has him fucked five ways to sunday. At the top of the pathetically well organized outline, is that if Jefferson were to ever find out about these feelings  _ (bleg) _ he’d never leave it alone. He’d use the information to his advantage and poke fun at Alexander every chance he got, because he may not be completely evil, but he’s pretty damn close, especially at work. Regardless of how he might feel about Alexander, and he spent a great deal of his sleepless night debating that with himself, Jefferson loves to win at Hamilton’s expense. Which brings him to the second issue, that being Jefferson’s feelings towards Hamilton. Their day to day dealings with each other, congressional debates, and the fact that just this morning Alexander received an email from him that started ‘listen here you little shit’,  would seem to make it quite clear that Jefferson detests his very existence, as Hamilton should his. That was the initial conclusion Alexander had come to, but then, how could he explain the events of the past weeks? There have been moments where he’s been soft, and acted well outside of anything Alexander could have imagined. But still, there’s nothing to imply that he interested in Alexander in the slightest, or that he’s even attracted to men in general. At pessimistic best, Jefferson respects him as a confident and fellow co worker and at worst, well, both prospects are rather disheartening. Alexander presses his fingers to his temples, everything feels wrong, like he’s entered so sort of bizarro alternate reality. 

There’s a sharp knocking on his door, prompting to look up. His assistant, John Jay, is hovering in the door, expression twisted into one of concern. “Is this a bad time Mr. Hamilton?”  he asks.

Alexander straightens in his chair, it whines as he does, and slicks back the stray hairs from his face. “No. What did you need John?”

Jay doesn’t look completely convinced, but he doesn’t push the matter either. “I was just wondering if there was anything you needed me to do before I went home for the night.”

“Wha-” Hamilton blinks rapidly, snatching his phone from his pocket. “What time is it?”

“Nearly six thirty, mister Secretary.” Jay informs him. 

“Hu-” Alexander leans back a bit and the hinges of his desk chair give another grating squeek. “I hadn’t realized it was that late already...Yeah, can you just-” he grabs a thick file off his desktop, because they're still transitioning to totally paperless, and holds it out to John. “- Just make sure all of these get sorted before you clock-out.”

“Of course sir.” Jay says with a polite smile, taking the papers from him. “Will you be working late again tonight?”

“I think I’m going to head out actually, do some work from home.” Alexander replies.

“Remember to take a break once in awhile Mr. Hamilton.” Jay nods curtly, a knowing smile on his lips. “I’ll tell Secretary Jefferson that you’re headed home for the day.” he turns to go.

Meanwhile, Alexander’s heart just slammed into his sternum. He sits ramrod straight in his chair as his stomach drops. “Why is Jefferson looking for me?”

Jay pauses, then shrugs. “He said he had something to discuss with you. I told him you were busy. Unless, did you want me to send him in now?”

“No.” Hamilton jumps from his seat, gathering up his bag. “No, it’s fine. You have a nice night John.”

John gives him a tentative nod before replying. “You too sir.” then he leaves, letting the door fall shut behind him.

Alexander hastily shoves the rest of his things into his bag and exits his office, joining the throng of other white house staff making their way out for the evening. His eyes keeps darting around as he awkwardly shuffles into the elevation, watching for a gaudy suit or poof of ebony locks, lest Jefferson sneak up on him and he in turn do something stupid. He manages to make it out to the car, where Lauren’s is waiting  without incident. 

“Hey man, what’s up?” Lauren’s asks the second he’s situated.

“Nothing.” Hamilton says, much too quickly to be considered natural. He’s not told John about his whole Jefferson crisis yet. 

The other man shoots him a look, but Alexander busies himself with his buckle. “Aaaaalright.” he shifts the car into drive and pulls them carefully out of the parking lot. “My day was awesome, thanks for asking. Herc is taking me to dinner tonight.”

That catches Alexander’s attention, drawing him out of his self-centered train of thought for a moment. “I thought we stopped the in friend group shuffle dating back in college.” he says, cocking his head to the side. 

John merely shrugs. “We did, but Herc said he wanted to try for something more serious this time, so we’re going out. You might wanna go to a bar tonight, just a heads up.”

Alexander scoffs, giving the other man side eyes and smirk. “Horny bastard.” he mutters.

“Hey! Can you blame me. Guy’s built like a house.” he shoots back. Then he smirks, the grin spreading cheshire like over his face. 

 

When they get back to the apartment, John immediately locks himself in his bedroom, emerging twenty minutes later, all primped up for his date. He wearing a faded Nirvana tee under a sleek black blazer, coupled with a pair of his nicest dark wash skinny jeans and gold suede high tops. He’s strapped his thick golden Rolex watch to his left wrist and threw his wavy brown hair back in a neat ponytail. Alexander, who’s sitting on the couch with his computer balanced on his knees, lets out a low whistle. He’s starting to feel a bit jealous of Mulligan tonight. “Well you’re definitely gonna get lucky” he comments, as John snatches his wallet from the coffee table. 

“One can only hope.” He shoots Hamilton a wink over his shoulder as he makes his way to the door. “Don’t wait up!”

And then Laurens is gone, and with him, any hope Alexander had to distract himself. He’s half tempted to pack it all up and just head over to Jefferson’s, disgusting as it is, he misses the snarky man, but the memories of last night are still fresh in his mind. Hamilton doesn’t know if he can go back there after everything that was said and pretend he doesn’t feel a pang of immoral envy whenever his gaze falls on Martha’s picture, it’s a disturbing feeling. But still, he can’t stand being alone in the quiet when there are things that need to be discussed and he desperately wants to debate them with Jefferson, so he does the next best thing. He picks up his phone to send him text.

[Hey, we should talk about that page you want to remove.]

After he hits send, Alexander pulls up the bill on his laptop and tosses his phone down to the end of the couch, so he’s not compelled to check it every three seconds. He then trugs into his room, quickly strips off his work attire, instead donning his faded gray hoodie and an ancient pair of sweatpants with a hole in the crotch seam. Once he’s dressed down and secures his hair in messy bun a the top of his head, Alexander heads back into the living room and flops back down on the sofa. Less than a minute later his phone vibrates violently and Hamilton lunges across the cushions to grab it, heart racing in his chest. It’s Jefferson, like he’d hoped.

_ [Oh, do you have time for me now? I suppose I’m lucky you could fit me into you busy schedule.]  _

Then,

_ [Are you on your way over, should I be prepared to hear you knocking on my door in a minute] _

Alexander’s thumbs fly over the keys. 

[No, I’m still at home, figured we could just text]

A beat of radio silence, Hamilton watches the little dots at the bottom of the screen bounce.

_ [You New Yorkers, I swear, none of you understand the importance of true, verbal communication.] _

_ [How am I supposed to slap sense into you about this atrocious addition via text?] _

Alexander presses his lips together in a line of annoyance as he types out his response. 

[You’re a smart guy, figure it out.] 

He hits send before he can double think it. Jefferson replies with the utmost eloquence.

_ [Fuck it, I’m coming over] _

Hamilton’s heart plummets into his stomach before it trampolines back up and lodged itself somewhere in his throat. It takes a moment to force it back behind his ribs, the whole while he stares his phone, rereading the message. Then he leaps from the couch, his gaze darting around the apartment wildly. It’s hardly clean, dishes sit here and there, he can spy at least three full glasses of water from where he’s standing, books and socks and hair ties are scattered over the floor and he knows for a fact that his room hardly looks any better. He’s got about fifteen minutes before Jefferson arrives he estimates, so Alexander sets about making the place look a little more presentable. He’s never been much a neat freak, and neither is Laurens if the current state of their home has anything to show, but image is everything and Alexander wants to make a good impression. He gathers up all the dirty plates and glasses and takes them to the connecting kitchen, they shudder as he balances them precariously in his arms. Next, he darts around the living room, collecting loose hair bands until he has them climbing up his forearm. He’d like to think this means he’ll never have to buy another pack of them but he knows that’s not true, he loses them faster than pens. Depositing them on his dresser, Hamilton then turns to stare down the mountain of clothes he’s been neglecting. 

He shakes out his hands “Alright, let’s do this.” 

With some effort and a great deal of stubborn determination, Hamilton is able to scoop up the entire mass into his arms and waddles awkwardly with them to the washing machine, the door to which he opens with his foot. He tosses the whole thing in with a grunt, adds some detergent and sets the washer to run at a setting that’s probably safe. Then he retreats back to his room to shove the items that need to be dry cleaned into a cheap vinyl bag. As he does this, Alexander’s eyes drift over to the top drawer of his bedside table. His gaze lingers on it for a moment before he sighs, drops the bag and crosses to it in two strides. He hooks his fingers under the  drawer’s paneling and pulls it out, the unit sliding smoothly on it’s rails. There’s a handful of hair bands inside, a few of them broken, a couple of scraps of paper and napkins all covered in his own fervent handwriting, an unopened pack of tissues, and three condoms that are probably older than sin at this point. No lube though.

He slams the drawer shut, berating himself for his own idiotic thinking. The itemized list he constructed looms in the forefront of his mind. There’s no way, no chance in hell that he and Jefferson would- tonight, or ever for that matter, who's he trying to fool. He’s being needy and dumb all because John’s going to get some tonight and Alexander is most likely going to beat off when Jefferson leaves and then curl up alone. The thought makes his chest ache, he hasn’t been held through the night since Eliza, and now he’s craving the warmth of another body tucked against him. Specifically, a tall, well toned one.

The knock, more like pounding, at the front door makes Hamilton start. He tugs down his hair just to immediately refasten it lopsidedly, takes a deep breath, and forces himself to walk to the living room. When he gets there, he puts a slightly trembling hand on the handle and pulls it open. 

Jefferson is waiting on the other side, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his worn jeans.He’s wearing a sky blue button up with them, no doubt from the ensemble he’d worn to work today, something Alexander imagains was both equal parts horrendous and frustratingly attractive, his hair is swept out of his face except for one lone curl that hovers over his forehead almost teasingly.

“Jefferson” Alexander moves so there’s enough room for Jefferson to slip around him. The taller man skirts past him toward the couch. “I heard you were looking for me today.”

Jefferson drops onto the sofa with a huff skewering Hamilton with a glare. “I was, but your secretary wouldn’t let me through. How is it that you can always come barging into my office at any hour of the day, but I can’t get an appointment?”

“You make it too easy for me to get in.” Alexander says with a smirk, sitting himself on Jefferson’s left, directly in front of his laptop.

“Damn stray.” he hears Jefferson murmurs then he sighs. “Do you have any wine?” he asks “I have a feeling I’m going to need a great deal of it to get through this evening.” 

“I have beer.” Alexander supplies, not allowing the jab to hurt more then it should. “And you absolutely didn’t have to come over here, that was your decision.”

“I suppose you’re right” Jefferson says, pressing a thoughtful finger to his lips and arching his brow. “But I know you won’t listen unless I force you to, stubborn man.”  he smirks and a flush creeps up Alexander’s neck.

“I’ll see what I can find.” he mutters, jumping to his feet and crossing to the kitchen with a hurried pace. 

_ Subtle _ , he thinks as he raids the fridge and  cupboards for some kind of wine. _ Smooth and discreet, I’m sure he’s not suspicious at all, dumbass. _ To his great fortune, there’s a bottle tucked away on the shelf closest to the stove. Romance red, the swooping letters on the side read. Alexander grimces. Of course that would be it’s name. Regardless, he snags two glasses and the wine and heads back to the living room, sure to grab the bottle opener on his way. 

“I guess it’s your lucky night Jefferson” he says, setting the glasses down beside his computer then going to uncork the bottle. The plug comes out with a pop and a hiss and Hamilton fills both glasses halfway before reclaiming his spot on the sofa. 

Jefferson picks one up and sips it without much ado, surprising Alexander with a lack of comment on the wine’s vintage. Instead he gestures to the dimmed screen of the computer with his glass. 

“Where did you want to start?” he asks.

Hamilton gathers a breath to start his case, the jumpy, fluttering feeling in his stomach already starting to calm, because this feels normal, debating. “Well first of all, I had to add that page you loathe so much because of what you said in the third paragraph” he scrolls through the document until he’s pinpointed the section. “See, right here, it’s completely nonsensical, what you’ve written. I was amending it to try and defuse the issue these three lines create. If you want me to get rid of my new page, you need to delete these sentences here and here.” using the cursor, Hamilton highlights the phrases under scrutiny. 

Jefferson leans in, allowing a gust of that damn spicy cologne wash over Alexander, who in turn swallows thickly. He reads over the marked section, brows drawn tightly together, completely missing the fact the Hamilton is kind of have a crisis moment. Because their legs are pressed tight against each others, and the warmth radiating from Jefferson’s thigh is making his tingle at the point of contact. Alexander reaches forward and takes a large gulp of his own wine.  

“Are you kidding me Alexander?” Jefferson asks, maneuvering himself on the sofa so that he can rest back on the armrest. “Those sentences you’re so eager to remove are integral to your argument as a whole.”

Hamilton puffs up his chest. “How?”

Jefferson flashes him a teasing smirk that infuates him, Alexander reminds himself, that smile is infuriating and in no way is it going to distract him from beating this dick’s argument into dust. He takes another generous mouthful of wine, then fills his glass again. 

“I’ll talk nice and slow so even you can keep up.” the other man says, adding a sly, if not condescending, wink at the end. 

Then he launches into his explanation, speaking in a dragging drawl that has Alexander wanting to to crawl out of his skin because it is both much too slow and far too warm and heavily laced with his thick Virginian accent. His argument is well rehearsed and leaves no room for Hamilton to wedge in his opinion. Jefferson’s probably making some rather insightful points, unfortunately Alexander’s mind is quite indisposed with other thoughts at the moment. With the way he’s reclining on the armrest, Jefferson legs are ever so slightly parted, and if that weren't distracting enough,  the folds in the fabric of his jeans are making a perfect v around his crotch. Hamilton’s tongue sneaks out to wet his lips as he tears his gaze away, readjusting his focus to Jefferson’s face. He’s looking at Alexander lazily as he speaks, the loose lock of hair threatening to fall in his eyes at any moment. And god, he thinks, Jefferson really is beautiful, so long as Alexander ignores what is being said. His eyes half lidded and casting around the room, twinkling with confidence as he makes his case on...? Does it really matter? There’s already a slight tingle settling behind Alexander's own eyes. Though he’s hardly a lightweight, downing a glass and a half of wine in less than ten minutes can leave one with a bit of a buzz, if the smell alone wafting from Jefferson weren't enough. He directs his appreciative gaze towards Jefferson’s mouth, more than happy to watch it move. Alexander stares, quite openly at it as it forms long words like ‘legislatively speaking’ and ‘beneficial’ and ‘insurmountable’, mesmerized by the way Jefferson’s full lips shape the sounds, how the soft skin pulls gently apart when they open and the tip of of his tongue darts out every now and again, leaving them damp and shiny with saliva.

Alexander is moving before he really registers the conscious thought he made to do so. He presses his right hand to Jefferson’s knee, giving him the leverage he needs to propel himself over the man’s ridiculously long legs and smash their mouths together, swallowing up his words. Shocked, Jefferson jerks back against the armrest, but it's not enough to disconnect their mouths. Somewhere on the way Alexander’s eyes had fallen shut, and he presses their lips together for a moment longer, trying to engrave the sensation into his memory. The kiss is chaste but desperate and when they break apart, Alexander’s breath is quivering over Jefferson’s lips. 

The peace only lasts a second before both men get over the shock. The warmth in Hamilton’s chest immediately solidifies into ice and plummets to his toes. He pulls back and wrenchs open his eyes, though the louder half of his brain is screaming  at him to keep ravaging Jefferson’s mouth. 

To say Jefferson looks surprised would be a criminal understatement. His eyes are wide, round like saucers, lips slightly parted and he’s gripping the back of the couch, staring at Alexander with something akin to panic. 

Alexander’s stomach rolls. “I- I’m sorry I didn’t-” but he doesn’t get a  chance to finish the sentiment, because Jefferson leaps off the sofa. “Wait Jefferson, wait-!” he tries to catch the other man’s wrist but he snatches it away, quickly striding to the door. “Hang on, come back-” he chokes, but Jefferson’s already got a hand wrapped around the door knob. “Wait-  _ Thomas! _ ” 

The slamming of the door is like a nail being hammered into Alexander’s chest. He slumps over his knees and buries his head in his hands. He’s royally screwed up this time. Gross, chilling despair coils itself around his heart. When his mother had died, Hamilton had felt numb, like his heart would never feel again, probably some kind of defence mechanism his twelve year old brain had applied to protect him from the trauma. When Eliza had left him, his heart shattered with a dissonant chord like glass, the sharp shards are still embedded in his chest and they sting whenever he thinks of her. But this, now he just feels- hollow. Like someone scrapped out his insides and left him empty. He is not numb, he does not sting. He feels like nothing, like a shell, a husk. It’s a dizzying feeling, to be so void. His body is too heavy to move, so he doesn’t. Alexander stays hunched over his knees, with dry eyes pressed to his palms until the door swings open and the  cheerful, drunken voices of Laurens and Mulligan meet his ears. They stop a moment later, taking on hushes, worried tones as when they no doubt spot him. 

John is the first to approach him, crouching beside Hamilton and tentatively touching his shoulder. “Alex are you alright? What happened?”

Alexander’s head must weigh a million tonnes but he somehow manages to lift it anyway. John’s face is twisted with concern. “I think I fucked up, John.” he mutters.


	7. It Could Use Some Revision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander wakes up the next morning and has to deal with the aftermath of his decision. It- isn't easy. Lucky Lafayette is such an expert when it comes to matter of the heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE UPDATE HAHAHAHA I couldn't leave y'all hanging <3  
> I hope you haven't stowed away your tissues yet cause IT GETS WORSE BEFORE IT GETS BETTER GUYS. But, we're almost at the end ahhhhhh  
> Thanks to Ham-for-Ham and Clebimebi for beta reading, you guys make this thing readable!!!!

Alexander has no desire to get up the next morning. He lies in his bed with the sheets pulled up to his ears until he can’t take the wailing of his alarm a moment longer and is subsequently forced to sit up and turn it off. The weird emptiness in his chest left him hours ago, tingling numbness taking its place. It’s not by any means a pleasant sensation but Hamilton is just relieved to feel something, instead of just feeling cored. He shuffles through his morning routine, every step he takes filling him with dread of what must, unfortunately, come next. He tried to text Thomas last night, while laying in bed unable to sleep, trying to apologize, but he never opened the messages. If he runs into Jefferson today, they’ll probably have to talk about what happened. He’s written thirty-five scenarios in his head to explain away his lapse of judgment just in case. It hurts to have to invalidate the act, to sign off the kiss as nothing more than a drunken  mishap, but the thought of losing Thomas for good is twice as painful. He’ll pretend he doesn’t care, he just hopes, god he hopes that Jefferson will accept his explanation and they can go back to loathing each other like normal, even if inside Alexander is dying for something more. 

When they're both ready to go, he and Laurens walk out to the car together, the air between them thick. Laurens knows the whole situation with Jefferson now, Hamilton told him everything. About that night, the storm that changed everything, the emails, the dinner and of course, the kiss. That stupid, stupid kiss that ruined it all. Why, Alexander thinks bitterly, why does he have to be so destructive, why does he always fuck up? He sighs heavily as he slams the car door shut. At least the soft feeling of Thomas’ lips is something he’ll always have, the memory of how they shot sparks down his spine. That’s something he’ll never forget, no matter how hard he tries. Hamilton presses fingers to his eyes to stop the dull burn welling up behind them, and Laurens shoots him a sidelong glance from the driver's seat. He bites his lip, but says nothing, because he spent all his words of consolation the night before. It’s a shitty situation, every person alive knows the heart rending feeling of being rejected by their crush, it’s just not something Alexander is as accustomed too. Very rarely have members of either sex found him undesirable, they tell him he’s beautiful and witty and clever, boosting his ego through the roof and causing him to make stupid, immoral decisions. But now his head is swirling with _ what’s wrong with me’s  _ and  _ am I not good enough’s   _ though the answer is so clear. Thomas just isn’t interested, simple as that.

When the car rolls to a  gentle stop outside the white house offices Alexander makes to get out, but John snags his shoulder before he can get the door open. He gives Hamilton an encouraging smile. 

“I already called everyone up,” Laurens tells him. “We’re all gonna hang out tonight and help you get through this. Good friends and good beer is the best way to get over a stupid guy, right?”

Alexander smiles wearily, touched by supportive his friend are being, though John in particular is not fond of Jefferson. “It’d be easier if I didn’t have to see him everyday” he sighs ‘But thank you, I really don’t deserve such good friends.” he adds, pushing open the car door with his knee.

John rolls his eyes “Bullshit. We’ll see you later okay?”

“Right, later John.” Alexander then slams the door and stands watching Laurens’ car for as long as he can before he has no choice but to go in. He ignored the pointed, curious looks of those he passes, far more concerned with the turning and twisting of his stomach. The day promises to be hellish already. Hamilton joins the queue of people waiting for the elevator, shifting his mind away from pathetic thoughts of Thomas and self loathing and instead contemplating his position for the next cabinet debate in order to gain some sembles of normality. He is, contrary to what most of congress says, a full grown man, he doesn’t have the leisure  of time to dwell on the rejection. He’ll make it through today, and tomorrow, and the next day, until Jefferson consigns the events of last night to the untouched recesses of his mind and they can proceed with the bill. The silvery doors slide open with ease and Alexander shuffles in with the rest of the throng of bodies. 

As usual, Hamilton reaches his office before Jay does and he strides inside, flipping on the lights as he goes. He unloads his computer and other necessities from his bag absentmindedly, shuffling around papers and fidgeting with pens to keep himself preoccupied. When these can no longer be straightened, he drops himself into his desk chair with a huff and an accompanying whine from the chair itself. He then proceeds to busy himself with the checking of his emails and IMs. More reminders for events he has no interest in a attending, which he swiftly deleted from his in box. There is a message from President Washington however, requesting an outline for the next meeting of the cabinet, which as fate would have it, Hamilton will be leading as it's on the county’s fiscal climate. He’s glad to have the distraction. He gets about an hour’s worth of work done on it before the door to his office opens and Jay pokes his head in.   
“Sir” he asks, hoving with one hand on the door frame.

Alexander glances up. “Yes John, what did you need?”

Jay strides over to him, holding a thick manila envelope in his hands. He passes it gingerly to Hamilton. “Secretary Jefferson just dropped this off for you.”

Alexander’s stomach twists tight. “Why didn’t he just bring it in himself?” he asks in a strained voice. “Is he still here?”

“No Mr. Hamilton, he dropped it on my desk and told me to get it to you. Said he was too busy to do it himself.” Jay replies.

Hamilton sinks back into his chair, unsure as to if he feels relieved or hurt by the fact. “Alright, thank you John.”

Jay hesitates a moment before turning for the door. “If you’re sure you don’t need anything else, sir.” he shuts the door behind him with a snap as he leaves. 

Pressing a thumb to the side of his nose Alexander shuffles the envelope in his hand. Jay is such an attentive secretary, he’s really due for a raise. The folder in his hand only grows heavier as he eyes it, a growing sense of foreboding lingering around it. Hamilton peels back the top flap and slides the contents into his hand. 

It’s his bill.

No. It’s their bill, one that started it all, the one that keep him and Thomas up and debate together through the night, the one that drew them inexplicably closer when, in all honestly it should have had them at each other’s throats. The paper is crisp and still warm, smelling faintly of ink. There aren’t any edits on this copy, no crossed out phrases or margins full of red chicken scratch. Dumbfounded, Alexander flips to the next page, which is also clear of comments. He flips to the next, and the next, growing more frantic with each pen free page that greets him. He stutters to a halt when he reaches the newest page he’d added what feels like decades ago. Jefferson had left it in. With trembling fingers, Hamilton turns the document to the last page, where the signatures go. 

_ Thomas Jefferson _ is scrawled neatly at the very top in firm black pen. The sight reminds Alexander of a death knell, haunting and final. The simple signature serves like a period, ending a phrase, ending a phase, putting  an end to Jefferson and Alexander’s partnership. Finality. 

Hamilton grazes his fingers tentatively over the swooping letters. This is what he wanted, this is exactly what he’d strode into Jefferson’s office on that fateful Monday to get. He should be happy, getting the other signatures he’ll need to pass this bill onto the House floor will be easy now that Jefferson, his greatest political opposition has given his approval to the legislation. But the elegant loops of the _ j’s _ and  _ f’s  _ make his heart pang with longing. He doesn’t want this, he realises, he doesn’t care about this bill. Alexander is about to lose Thomas, may have already lost him, if the hard lines of these letters mean anything. A sour taste fills the back of his throat.

Alexander forcefully shove the papers back into their folder and flings the whole thing to the desk. His heart is hammering in his chest as he crosses his office it two strides and heaves open the door, hardly hears Jay as he passes his desk. He’s just- he’s got to get to Thomas, to talk to him, to beg him, to fight with him. Anything. He can’t lose him, not forever,  not like this. Hamilton bumps shoulders as he hurries through the halls to elevator, people try to scurry out of his way as he comes. The ride up to Jefferson’s floor is agonizingly slow, he should have just taken the stairs, two at a time. He never realized how much he needs Thomas in his life until the threat of him being gone was a looming possibility, and not just because he has these soft, pining feelings for him. No one but Jefferson can match his intellect, and Alexander both loathes and respects that quality in him. Life would be dull without the challenge of his arguments. Alexander had never felt so exhilarated as he did after his very first cabinet meeting with the man. It’s so much more satisfying to debate with someone on your level, and to think he might lose that because of one stupid de-

“Ow  _ FUCK-! _ ” Alexander shouts, staggering back. He clutches his nose, where a steady, violent throb is radiating out from, making tears prick in the corners of his eyes. He was so caught up in his frantic thoughts that he walked straight into Jefferson office door. He sniffs, pressing fingers underneath his nose to check if any blood is dribbling out as he glares down the offending obstacle. Never once has he see this door closed. Gritting his teeth against the pain, now starting to pulse in his temples, Alexander knocks on the door. 

“Thomas? ” he calls though the wood, but gets no response. After a long moment passes he tries again. “Jefferson are you in there? We-’ he swallows down the break in his voice. “We need to talk” 

He stops knocking, lets a long moment go by, just staring at the closed door. If anyones in there, they’re making no move to open it. Hamilton wheels around, looking for Jefferson’s secretary, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Just as he’s about to go, head back to his office and email Jefferson,  he hears footsteps approaching. He’s heartbeat thuds in his ears as he turns to face the sound coming from down the hall.

“Thomas?” he asks breathlessly, but it’s not Jefferson’s tall frame hovering in the archway. 

Instead, it’s Madison, clutching his phone in one hand, his brows knitted together. He glances down at his phone, then back at Hamilton, then his eyes go wide. Alexander staggers under the weight of the look. 

“Hamilton, what the hell did you do?” he asks, tone unreadable.

 

_“_ _Fils de salope_!” Lafayette huffs, the sound distorted by the static of Hamilton’s laptop speakers. His face is drawn tight in a scowl that is unbecoming of his fine features. “All of this drama and I am stuck ‘ere in fucking France!” he exclaims, causing someone off screen to shout back at him. Lafayette swivels around in his desk chair so his back is facing the camera. 

Alexander’s not quite sure what they’re arguing about, he’s not so great with Parisian slang, but he does catch a few word here and there, like  _ ‘Mind your own goddamn business’ _ and  _ ‘you can’t be screaming in the embassy’. _   Beside him on the couch Mulligan and John chuckle and a small smile works its way onto his own lips.  Leave it to Laf to get in a shouting match at work.

Just as promised, Laurens assembled the old crew, picking Hamilton and Mulligan up after work and bring them back to the apartment to drink and forget. He’d even called Lafayette, who’s currently in France, as his job as US ambassador dictates. John hadn't had the time to relay all the events of the past few weeks to him over the phone. He’s hearing  it all for the first time from Alexander over a skype call, and the fact that he’s not there to witness the situation unfold in person must be killing him. 

The two exchange blows in angry, rapid french for a moment longer before Lafayette holds up two very aggressive middle fingers towards the person just out of frame.

“Casse-toi” he spits as he turns back to the camera. He then fixes Alexander with a look, jabbing his finger at him though the camera. “You ‘ad better not fuck ‘im until I get back, do you ‘ear me Alexander?”

“You don’t have to worry about that Laf, something tells me Jefferson’s not interested in what I’m packing...” Hamilton retorts, gesturing vaguely at his crotch for emphasis. 

Lafayette fans away the comment with pursed lips and a curl in the corner of his mouth. “We are talking about Thomas Jefferson, no? I have witnessed ‘im bedding many fine women  _ and  _ men last time  ‘e was ‘ere. ‘E enjoys giving ‘ead as much as ‘e does receiving it, if my understanding is correct.” his cheek comes to rest against his hand, gaze becoming lazy as a smirk pulls across his face “Though, I ‘ave never ‘ad the pleasure of experiencing these claims first hand. You will ‘ave to fill me in on what the beau gosse is like in the sack, mon cher.”

The wretched pit that’s been sitting in a Hamilton’s gut since this morning churs uneasily, he let’s his gaze drop to his hand, that grasp at his knees as the knowledge washes over him. If it’s not the fact that he’s a man that’s off putting to Thomas than-

“Then it must be me that’s the problem...” he mutters, voice fading out at the end. 

John claps and hand to his shoulder and Heurc shakes his head.

“Jefferson’s a damn fool if he can’t see how great you are Alex.” Mulligan says. “But you already knew that.”

“Maybe-” Laurens tries. “Maybe you just surprised him and he’s not sure how to react.” he supplies with a weak smile. Bless his optimistic soul. 

Alexander tries to smile too, but it's cold and brittle like plastic. “He practically ran screaming from here after I kissed. If that’s not a defiant ‘not interested’ than I’m not sure what is.”

“Thomas is a shy man.” Lafayette states, drawing Hamilton’s gaze back up. He brush a stray curl from his face. “You would not guess it at first but ‘e is actually quite awkward. James ‘as told me of the time ‘e broke ‘is wrist trying to impress a lovely mademoiselle. Locked ‘imself away for two days after.” he chuckles softly at the memory. “Regardless, Thomas sometimes ‘as difficulty expressing what ‘e feels, but I am positive that ‘e is interested in you mon cher.”

“Really?” Alexander asks timidly, horrible insecurity getting the better of him. With everything that’s transpired in the last twenty four hours, he’s inclined to call bullshit, but Lafayette knows Jefferson better than that rest of them, works with him closely when they’re in France. 

Laf nods. “Oui. I am sure of it Alexander. As John said, you most likely caught Thomas off guard. ‘E was overwhelmed by everything ‘appening so quickly. That, and the fact that ‘e is not total over ‘is poor Martha yet, I fear.”

Something strange and protective pangs in Alexander's heart. He drops his gaze back down to his lap, watching his fingers fidget with disinterest. “Right, he told me about what happened to her.”

“Martha was ‘is soulmate.” Lafayette says solemnly and Hamilton flinches at the words. “I ‘ave never seen two people so deeply in love. She and Thomas were made for each other, and when she died-  I do not know all the details, but ‘e was devastated, ‘e never got over losing ‘er. A few months later ‘e was sent ‘ere. ‘E went through partners faster than pages of ‘is writing but never the same person twice, never for more than one night. ‘E was not looking for love. No, I do not think Thomas ‘as been in love for very long time.”

Silence fills the room, viscous and heavy, it seems to drown the honking of the cars in the street below. Everyone sits somberly still, especially Alexander, who’s trying to process everything he’s just been told. His chest is aching. He never knew, all this pain Thomas was hiding, carrying with him all this time. He wishes he could sooth it away, kiss Jefferson breathless until he can no longer recall the sorrow. It’s a foreign desire, but Hamilton’s past the point of being shocked by his feelings when it comes to Thomas. His fingers clench the fabric of his jeans, insides a mess of swirling thoughts and emotions that he can’t make heads or tails of. One would think he’d be certain of his feelings by now, but something small inside him is still in denial, can’t be sure of what he wants.

“Alexander?” Lafayette’s voice is soft, tentative. “Do you really, truly care about Thomas?”

He mulls the question, biting down on the inside of his cheek. It should be so obvious now. It takes Alexander a painful moment to respond, to draw up the courage to answer. 

“Yes” he breathes, and suddenly it all clicks, like that little would, that verbal confession was the missing piece to a puzzle he couldn’t solve for the longest time. But now it's all clear. “Yes I really do.” he raises his eyes to meet Lafayette’s. The man’s smiling gently at him.

He leans forward slightly in his seat, and if he were here, Hamilton is sure he’d be grasping his shoulders. “Then you must tell him mon cher. I know Thomas, I know that ‘e does not ‘ave the courage, it must be you. If you care about ‘im, you must let ‘im know.”

Warmth blossomed in Alexander’s chest and starts radiating outwards, creeping into his lungs and humming in his cheeks. Pining is hard but wooing, he’s a master at that. He’s going to woo and pursue Thomas with everything he’s got because now, now he knows he’s got a chance.


	8. His Own Declaration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander is nothing if not determined, and right now, he's determined to make Jefferson his, though the only means he knows how. Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aheeeeee, I think they're gonna bang in this chapter what about you? Second to last chapter, I can't believe this is almost over ; _ ; But I have more fic ideas, so do not fear! Thank you to every person whose left comments or kudos, thank you for welcoming my frist fic for this fandom so warmly. Thank you to that one fan artist out there, that drawing was adorable. And, as always, a huge huge thanks to my beta readers Ham-for-Ham and Clebimebi, you guys make this possible <333

Alexander doesn’t sleep that night, even after Lafayette has to leave and John and Mulligan head off to bed, Hamilton lies awake, trying to devise the best plan of attack. He could always attempt to coax Jefferson into seeing him so that they could talk face to face, but the borderline pleading texts he’s sent the southerner still remain unopened. There’s a big chance he wouldn’t even see the request. Madison hates him, so there’s no way he would help. It’s not until around two in the morning that Alexander finally passes out due to incredible physical and emotional fatigue. His sleep is fitful and restless and he’s up again at five forty-five.  He gets up and starts to walk the length of his room, still thinking  but coming up empty. He supposes he could just go over to Jefferson’s place, bang on the door until he lets Hamilton in and-. His train of thought falls flat after that. What would he even say? When he’s around Thomas, words seem to fail him, he’d just end up looking like an utter fool. 

Then the idea hits him like a brick with ‘ _ obvious’ _ written on its side.  _ Words _ . They’re everything to Alexander, he can never stop producing them. He’d written love letters to Eliza when they’d just starting dating. They were sweet and full of romantic lines like poetry, and even if it hadn’t been true in the end, they’d convinced her that Alexander was worthy of her time and affections. How could they not prove the same to Thomas? So Alexander boots up his computer and starts writing, because that’s what he’s best at. He works for hours, only pausing once to shove some cereal down his throat. It’s a slow process, Hamilton finds that everything he types feels stilted and uninspired, insincere. So he ditches his laptop and fishes out some ancient stationery and a pen and writes his letter by hand. It takes him most of the day, the crick in his neck grows more painful every hour he spends hunched over the brittle paper, but his hand flies over it putting everything he feels into words on the page. When he’s finally exhausted the paper, Alexander leans back to re-read what he’s written, ink stains up to his elbows. 

 

_ My dearest Thomas, _

_ Let me start by saying that my heart aches as I write this. I can’t stress to you the great pain and overwhelming sorrow our separation causes me in so few words as this page permits, in fact i feel i could exhaust  _ ~~_ ditionarys _ ~~ _ dictionaries and still not have enough words to express to you the hollowness in my chest  _ ~~_when i long for_ _yo_~~ _ when I think of you. I now realize,  in the wake of your absence, that I ‘ve taken your presence for granted as I now find myself drowning  without the safe haven that you provide me.  A tranquil mour in which I can find peace  _ _~~from the~~   _ _ from my own fervent thoughts, for you have forced me to sit in the still and quiet and contemplate the very essence of my being. Not only in relation to myself, but in  _ ~~_ realation _ ~~ _ relation  to you as well, My Dear Thomas. And, in light of this reflection, I have arrived at the following conclusions.  _

_ I am, I have come to discover, a man who is deeply and above all else in love with you, My Dearest. There is no logic that can be applied  to explain as to why  this is true, but I know within me that it is. If you need further proof My Dear Thomas, I implore you,that you need only listen the fierce hammering of my heart when we are together (surely you must have noticed it). It can lie no more than me.  I am stimulated by you, not only in a physical sense (because in truth, you are the most beautiful man that  _ _~~I have ever~~ _ _ it has been my joy  to  behold, My Lovely Thomas), but also in the intellectual sense. I find myself in a constant state of awe when I consider the marvel that is your mind,  _ ~~_ and though you use it in such adverse ways I   _ ~~ _ Never in my wildest imaginings would I have ever believe that I would happen a upon one as sharp as mine,. It is, without a doubt, the trait I find both the most enthralling and frustrating about you for it is a masterpiece, like the rest of you. If the world were perfect and this paper never ending I would compose a life's worth of sonnets  _ ~~_ expressing _ ~~ _ illustrating the depth of which my affections run for you, but the world is not perfect, so I am afraid I will have to be more succinct.  This brings me to my next conclusion, which, if I can only write honest words with this pen, is not a great deal different from the first.  _

_ I, My Dearest Thomas, being a man so helplessly enamoured by you, have had these thoughts and desires for longer than I would care to admit. I am a lonely, lost man, and have been for some time. That was, until I tore away the shroud of loathing I had placed over you, and saw you truly as you are. Yet another man whose heart is isolated and alone. If it could speak, the very page I write this upon would cry  out in anguish as I write that I desire you more then I have ever desired anything. I cannot bear to be alone any longer My Dearest Thomas, but ever greater than that, I cannot live another second if it is not by your side. Being your enemy is no longer enough and for this you must forgive me, for I am a greedy, selfish man and I seek a more intimate relationship with you. The air itself seems bitter when not in your presence, when I am not bathed in the rich scent that you seem to produce (I can not rid myself of it, the smell of you even impresses itself upon my dreams, and I am never free of my yearning for you.)  I know, My Dear, that I cannnot replace what you’ve lost, (a suffering far too terrible for words to capture)  nor do I intend to be, but My Love I beg of you, permit me to offer the comfort that I can. Allow me to stay by your side and provide you with all the love my war torn heart can offer (for I myself am not whole)  It is all I want My Dear Thomas _

_   
_ _ Your Devoted and Stubborn Alexander. _

  
  


Its messy, he can see where the ink blotted when his pen stalled, or how the lines cut deep into the parchment, threatening to tear it, when the words would not stop coming. There are smudges and crossed out phrases, scribbled out words that he’d misspelled as he fervently poured himself into each line. He likes that it’s messy, one can feel the desperation in every curl of his  _ ‘y’ _ s, it feels far more genuine than it would if he’d typed it up in stiff, point twelve calibri. Hamilton smiles softly to himself, stretching his arms up above his head and listening to the joints as they pop. Nervousness flutters in his chest as he brings them back down to check the time on his phone. It’s seven forty eight, not a universally decent hour to show up uninvited on someone's front steps, but if he has to wait any longer Alexander thinks his heart may explode. 

So he rises from his desk chair, folding the letter carefully as he does, making sure that the creases don’t bend any of the words. He slips it into the pocket of his sweatpants, along his with wallet and phone, which he snatches from the nightstand. He then slips on a clean shirt and then he’s ready to go, hair loose and hang limply at his neck and ink stains smudged across his forearms. He shouts a hurried goodbye to Laurens as he leaves, shutting the door behind him with a snap before the other man has time to respond.

The bus ride is agonizingly long, his legs jog rapidly with nervous anticipation, annoying the tired commuters who hold the overhead bar. Alexander realizes he must look a mess in his crumpled sweats and t shirt that, only now does he realize is inside out. He’s on his feet before the bus even comes to a full stop, taking the steep steps two at a time and almost tumbling to the sidewalk because of it. But once his sneakers hit the pavement (because, no, he didn’t run out of the house without shoes), that pit, gnawing with uncertainty, is back in his stomach. He walks the half block to Jefferson’s townhouse, fingers rubbing a corner of his letter smooth to relieve some tension as he clips down the street. Alexander feels like he’s teetering on the edge of a cliff, sharp, jagged rocks behind him, ready to catch him if he stumbles back, a swirling abyss of churning black waves below him, prepared to swallow him up with their uncertainty. And when he finally stops at the bottom of Jefferson’s front steps, it's like leaning over the brink, his stomach drops. If he wants to, this is Alexander’s last chance to run, but he doesn’t, because he’s a stubborn man and Thomas Jefferson is the biggest challenge he’s ever faced. He plants his foot on the first stone step. 

Whatever happens here, this night, Hamilton knows that nothing will ever be the same, when they catch each other staring or go toe to toe in a cabinet debate, it’s going to be different. Either Thomas is going to be his or, he’s going to go home rejected and broken, his stomach rolls, Alexander really hopes it's the former. 

With a trembling fist, Hamilton wraps on the door three times, then awkwardly lowers his arm back to his side, waiting stiffly. A long quiet moment passes, he knocks again. His chest starts to deflate. 

He raises his hand a third time , pounding a bit more veriously. “Thomas?” he calls though the wood, only to be meet with more silence. “If you’re in there please open up. I’m not here to bother you I just- I have something for you.” 

Alexander stops knocking and starts feeling indignant. How he suppose to do any convincing if Thomas won’t open the door like some moody child. Huffing under his breath, Alexander starts checking the door for a mail slot that he could shove the letter in, then he could sit on the front steps again and wait for him to open up, because he will open up eventually. He just has to. Right? Much to Hamilton’s dismay, the mailbox is affixed to that wall beside the door and therefore is of no use to him. Who knows how long it could take Jefferson to check his mail and Alexander, ever impatient simple cannot wait for his answer. So he steps back for the door, back down the steps to the front of the building, perhaps there’s a window he could bang on instead. 

As he’s inspecting them, a shadow dances across a window in his peripheral. Hamilton’s attention immediately snaps towards the center one on the second floor, where the sheer white curtain flutters like it’d just been dropped back into place. A faint shadow hovers behind it, backlit by the warm light spilling out onto the ever darkening street. Alexander’s insides do a somersault.

“Thomas!” he cups his hands around his mouth so he’s sure he can be heard. The shadow seems to quiver against the curtain. “Thomas, I know you’re in there, open the door.” In response to this, the shadow starts to fade, like Jefferson is moving further from the window, but it doesn’t disappear completely, nor does the door swing open. 

Alexander purses his lips tight. Stupid, infuriating, insufferable Thomas. He casts his gaze around for something that might recapture the stubborn man’s attention. 

The sidewalks here have little stips of grassy plots of land, where thin trees with spindly limbs are planted in neat rows all down the block, and are guarded by high metal fences. The one behind Alexander is no different, but he spots a handful of quarter sized rocks resting in the dirt at the trees roots. It’s disgustingly cliche, but he’s come to goddamn far already to be cockblocked, in a sense, by Jefferson’s social anxiety.  Alexander snatches up one of the stones, bounces it in his hand for a moment to get a feel for its weight, then he lobs it toward the window. It flies wide of its mark, striking the side of building next door with a dull thunk. Gritting his teeth, Hamilton picks up another and tries again. This one plinks satisfyingly against the glass. 

“Thomas please” he scoops up another and throws, hitting just left of the glass. “Just let me say my piece, then-” he lets another rock loose, it smacks hard right above the frame. “- Then I’ll leave, if you want me to...”

The shadow doesn’t move and the door remains firmly shut, Alexander’s grip tighten around the next stone. “You’re such a dick Jefferson!” he shouts, hurling the rock with all his might. He was expecting it to clunk unimpressively just below the window, but instead, it smashes through it with  the resounding pang of shattering glass. Hamilton freezes, arm still extended in front of him from the follow through, staring dumbstruck at the gaping, jagged hole in the frame. From inside, he can hear Jefferson’s loud exclamation of  _ “FUCK!”, _  the sound spilling through the now open window onto the street. 

The rational part of Hamilton’s brain is advising him to  _ fucking run  _ because Jefferson is going to straggle him to death here on the sidewalk, but shock and ringing of rock smashing through  glass have him rooted to the spot. Slowly he lowers his arm. 

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck” He’s a dead man. 

The thud of the heavy front door slamming against the stone wall of the alcove echos down the nearly deserted street, a bang like a cannon firing that makes Hamilton jump three feet in the air. His eyes dart towards the front step, that Thomas is thundering down, body taut and stiff with fury. It takes him two long strides before he’s bearing down on Alexander, dark eyes flashing and looking very much like he could spit fire in this instance. Jefferson takes a fistfull of Alexander’s shirt, before he can get a word in, and drags him back to the house. Alexander does his best to keep up with Thomas’ quick steps, but finds himself stumbling because of the other man's wide stride, the fabric of his shirt bunched up at his neck not doing him any favors. 

Still, he can’t help but choke out a “Thomas.” as he’s being hauled up the steps. 

Jefferson’s gaze is plastered straight ahead, refusing to look at him, his knuckles paling from how tightly he’s got his fist wound into Alexander’s shirt front. 

“What do you want, huh?” he growls out. He shoves Alexander through the door, letting it thud shut behind them as Hamilton staggers against the wall, both terrified and, perhaps anxious is the best word to describe his twisting insides. 

Again, before he can pull in a breath, Jefferson is on him, pinning him roughly to the wall with a hand on either shoulder. He towers over Alexander, practically trembling with rage, his hands shaking. 

“What do you  _ want  _ Alexander?” he snarls. “Come on, what is it, huh?  _ What?! _ ”  

Alexander swallows thickly, suddenly at a loss for words. He wants to reach for the letter in his pocket but, now doesn’t exactly seem like the time, what with Thomas looming an inch from his face with his teeth bared like he might take a chunk out of his neck. 

“I- I don’t know I-” he stammers out pathetically, unable to string together beautiful phrases when Jefferson’s blunt nails are biting furiously into his shoulders. 

“Bullshit! ”Thomas shoves him harder into the wall.

Alexander blinks up at the other man,  too rattled to speak. Thomas is glaring down at him but he looks exhausted as he does so. His eyes flash with visible fury but there’s something more desperate there too. Something almost pleading in the creases of his brow, or the way his gaze racks over Alexander’s face, like he’s searching for- something. 

“That’s not good enough, Alexander!”  he pushes Hamilton again, but not as violently as before. “What do you WANT!”

After a tense moment, Jefferson’s  head droops, only slightly, but enough for Hamilton to notice.

“What do you want?” the question comes out as a violent whisper. His lips are drawn tight over his teeth now as he waits for Alexander to speak up, answer him, and Alexander notices with a jolt that the bags beneath Thomas’ eyes are deep mauve and puffy. 

“Thomas-” he breaths, hands almost instinctively coming up to curl into the front of Jefferson’s shirt. “I-” he can’t think of the right words, nothing he could say would accurately describe the way his heart is thudding against his ribs. So, in a split second decision, he decides to let his actions speak louder than his words for once.

Alexander heaves Jefferson down to his level and smashes their mouths together. He presses up into the other man, best he can with his shoulders pinned to the wall, moving his lips with vigor, tries to make his desperation, his passion and yearning apparent with the kiss. Tries to recreate the tender lines of his letter on Thomas’ mouth, rewriting them with the gentle flick of his tongue on the soft skin there. Thomas is still as stone, just like the last time their mouth met, though this time is far more passionate. While last time it had been a spur of the moment decision, this time Alexander is pouring everything he has into this kiss. He holds on for as long as he can, scrapes his teeth tentatively over Jefferson’s lips, before falling back. He lets his head hit the wall with dull  _ thump,  _ lightheaded and dazed and gasping greedy at the air, lets his eyes stay tightly shut as he tries to gather enough breath to speak. 

“This...” he eventually mutters, soft and breathless and seemingly unable to form more than one word at a time.  “... Us.”  He peels his eyes open so he can see Jefferson’s face. 

There’s something hard to read in Thomas’ eyes, a swirling mixture of yearning and uncertainty. Again, his gaze tears into Alexander’s face, seeking, searching, perhaps for some sign that he’s lying, that he’s feeling anything other than burning adoration for the man before him. Then he lets out breath, brow hardening -and it’s like a shot. 

Thomas shoves his hips forward, Alexander letting out a little ‘ouf’ as they pin him hard to the wall, leaving his hands free to curl up around the smaller man’s neck. They cradle Hamilton close, one firmly cupping the back of his neck, the other sliding up to bury itself in his hair, fingertips leaving a scorching trail across his skin. And then Thomas’ mouth is on him too, warm and yielding and fervent against his own, everything Alexander had ever hoped it be. He detangles a hand from Jefferson’s shirt front, loops his arm around his back and pulls him closer, wanting to feel the full weight of him against his body, meets the taller man’s demanding lips with eagerness. The way Thomas kisses him is euphoric, all teeth and tongue and passion, and Alexander vaguely thinks back to the last fourth of July he’d spent with Eliza, when he'd accidentally dropped a box full of bottle rockets and sparkles into the bonfire. The fizzle and hiss of sparks, every hurried breath against each other's mouth sending a new violent splash of color flaring against his closed eyelids. He can imagine the high pitched whine of the rockets in his ears as they ignite, the way Thomas sinks his teeth gently into his lower lip like the pop and bang as they burst, making his heart quiver and skip a beat. This is what it’s like to kiss Thomas Jefferson, really kiss him. It’s loud and explosive, and over far too quickly, leaving him awestruck. 

Alexander gasps, tries to gather himself, or at the very least catch a breath, but it seems Thomas has other plans. The moment their mouths disconnect, leaving Alexander cold and dizzy, Jefferson’s descending on his neck, searing lips mapping a hot, wet trail down the column of his throat. A needy sound slips unbidden from Alexander’s mouth, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t mind that he sounds desperate, because he is. Instead he embraces it, paws at Jefferson’s back and lets a shuddering breath fall from his lips, head tilted back against the wall to give Thomas more room to nip and suck at his skin. 

“What do you want, Alexander?”  Jefferson growls into his neck, slowly making his way down to Hamilton’s collar. The questions sounds nothing like it the raw plea from only minutes ago, Jefferson’s voice is teasing, almost predatory as he flicks his gaze up towards Alexander’s face. He  latches his lips to a patch of skin right above Hamilton’s  clavicle and he beings to knead the flesh between his teeth. 

“You-!” Alexander lets loose a breathy moan, hips jerking up into the man pinning him up to this wall. “Thomas please”

“Mmmmm” Thomas hums, laives his tongue over the spot to sooth the slight ache he’s left there. Then, once he’s sure he’s left a sufficient mark, Jefferson reconnects their lips.

This time it’s slower, no less passionate, but the way Thomas strokes into his mouth is far more sensual, and Alexander moans into it, finally bringing his other hand up to tangle in the curls at the base of his neck. When they part for air this time, Thomas hover close, slots his nose against Alexander’s while he steadies his breathing. 

“You’re sure?” he asks, letting his lips graze lazily over Hamilton’s cheek.

Alexander nods. “Yes, for so long now Thomas.” he leans in to peck the other man’s lips and murmurs “Thomas” again, because he can, and he likes the way the name feels on his tongue.

In response, Thomas moves to mouth over his jaw, smirking like none of this is affecting him, but Alexander can feel the warm bulge pressed against his thigh, it fills him with anticipation for what’s coming next. 

“Well then” Jefferson purrs into his ear, making his whole body shudder. “Bedroom?”

“Oh I don’t know about that” Alexander slides his hands up and down Jefferson biceps. “I bet you could pin me to this wall easily.” he teases.

Thomas huffs, placing a warm kiss at the juncture of his neck and jaw. “I rather prefer this evening not ending with a trip to the ER just to prove you wrong.” Alexander laughs  breathily. Thomas slips one his hands into Hamilton’s “Come on”

They stumble down the hall together and up a flight of stairs, Alexander’s chest warm as he squeezes around their interlocked fingers. All this waiting, years of sexual tension set every nerve in his body aflame, sparkling with anticipation. This is what he wanted, this, this giddy jumpy feeling is what he expected when he got his bill passed, but screw that now. Being dragged hurriedly onto the landing by Thomas is infinitely better than getting his signature. 

Once at the top of the steps, he pushes Jefferson against a wall, smiling his own teasing little smile at the shocked look on his face. He always seems shocked, like he still at this point, mere moments before he’s hopefully going to pound Alexander into his mattress, can’t believe this is real. But his surprise quickly melts into soft sounds of pleasure as Hamilton starts to lay his own path of  fiery kisses over his neck. He arches up beautifully against Alexander’s wandering lips, grasps at his hips and allows him a moment of control. Alexander can’t resist, he presses his nose against Thomas’ thoat and drinks in the sweet, spicy smell that’s been plaguing him for weeks, and it’s such a relief, so head-spinningly strong that he sighs across his skin before continue with his god given right to claim every inch of Jefferson’s neck with his mouth.

“Have I ever told you how fucking nice you smell?” he murmurs along Thomas’ jaw. 

Thomas bristles, but his hips still grind lazily against Alexander's. “And have I ever told you how damn impatent you are? My room is literally right here, but you’d rather us dry hump like teenages. Are you purposely trying to ruin my wallpaper?”

Alexander groans but does reluctantly unwind himself from Jefferson, after leaving one finally nip below his jaw. “By all means then, lead the way.”

Thomas doesn’t need to be told twice. He wraps his fingers around Alexander’s wrist and pulls him into the room half step from the stairs. Once they step through the threshold Alexander only gets a moment to take in the queen sized bed and cluttered writing desk before Thomas is at him again, sucking at his bottom lip and pushing him back, back, back until Alexander’s thighs catch on the bed frame. And he’s the impatient one, yeah right. When they pull apart this time, it’s race to see who can strip down quicker. Shirts are pulled over heads and cast to the wayside, to be found at a later time, shoes and socks shredded off with haste. Alexander rips his sweatpants off, flings them, somewhere, and leaps back onto the bed, watching with mild and amusement and smoldering lust as Thomas stumbles out of his jeans. He’s so much better than Hamilton could have ever imagined, he knew Jefferson works out, the man loves to boast about it, but, jesus. He’s all dark skin pulled over taut abs and lean thighs, and Alexander near swoons when Thomas starts to drape himself over his shorter body, allowing himself to be pressed back into the soft, downy sheets of the bed as they scoot up towards the headboard, arms coming to wrap around the other man’s middle and pull him close. 

Jefferson leans down, covers Alexander and lays a gentle kiss to his lips, and suddenly everything grows soft. Every touch as he caresses his hands down Hamilton’s sides, each kiss he places to his neck and chest have turned slow and tender, and his eyes are screwed shut, like he’s trying very hard to put the feeling of every dip and curve of Alexander’s skin to memory. It’s not what Hamilton was expecting, he wouldn’t have thought the man above him was capable of such loving motions, at least not towards him. He’d expected to be rutted against until he can’t remember the color of the sky, not handled like a porcine doll. 

But then Thomas, sighs, a quivering sound that splays over his chest. “Alexander” he mutters, the pleading tone is back, pricking at the edges of the name, and it clicks in Alexander’s head.

_ ‘No, I do not think Thomas ‘as been in love for a very long time’  _ Lafayette’s words float through his mind, and again his heart twist with this sharp, protective yearning. Thomas is afraid, of what exactly he’s not sure, but the way he’s pressing fervent, desperate lips to Alexander’s throat, it’s like he thinks he might vanish at any moment. Alexander wants to soothe him, it’s hurts to see Thomas so pleading and uneasy, wants to remind him that he’s here and real and maddeningly in love with him. Kiss him breathless, until he can’t remember the pain, is what Hamilton recalls thinking. So he does just that. Alexander threads his fingers into Thomas’ curls and drags him up to meet his lips, tentatively stroking into his mouth. Thomas instantly relaxes, presses himself  to Alexander’s body and lets out a soft moan. They kiss until they run out of air, until Hamilton is sure he’s sucked it all out and left Jefferson breathless and dazed, then moves a hand down to cup his cheek. Thomas leans unabashedly into the warmth of his palm, chest heaving as he gulps down air. 

“Alexander” he mutters weakly  against his lips, and Alexander brushes his thumb over Thomas’ cheek.

“Shhh, I know.” he whispers back. “I’m not going anywhere.” Thomas opens his eyes and meets Alexander’s steady gaze, for only the second time ever, looking small. “We can stop if it’s too much.” Hamilton pushes, because he’d rather wait then lose Thomas entirely. He’s worth the wait. 

But Jefferson simply shakes his head and huffs, as if to cover up the momentary display of weakness. “I don’t need you to fucking coddle me, I’m a grown ass man.” he snaps, leaning down to nip Alexander’s shoulder hard enough to make it sting. “I’m alright.” he mutters against his skin, more softly this time. 

Alexander watches him anxiously for a moment, weary of any other signs that Thomas might not be in an emotionally good place for sex right now, but when he moves to reconnect their lips, kissing with all the bruising power as before, and Hamilton melts into it. He lets his hands wander over the heated expanse of Jefferson’s skin, eventually taking up residence low on his hips, fiddling with the waistband of his boxers, an obnoxious obstruction Alexander decides. Their hips rut together while they lick fiercely  into each others mouths, the fabric of their underwear providing some friction, but not nearly enough. Hamiton starts striping Thomas’ last remaining article of clothing off his hips, until they catch on his thighs and Thomas pulls them the rest of the way off. Quick to follow his lead, Jefferson snakes a hand down Alexander’s side, curls his fingers under the elastic of his boxer briefs, and tugs them down, until his cock springs free with and satisfied hum from the man beneath him. 

“You mentioned how long you’ve wanted this.” Thomas teases, peppering little kisses here and there on the expanse of Alexander’s chest. “How long would that be exactly, how long have you been craving my cock?” The pads of his fingers ghost along the underside  of his flushed erection and Alexander thrust up into the slight touch, panting. 

“Since that night.” he grits out,  surprised of how cohort he sounds while Jefferson lazily strokes him. “Since the storm and those stupid fucking blankets. Maybe even longer than that.” he lets out a broken moan. “Thooomas!”

Jefferson makes a little noise of approval in the back of his throat, sweeping beads of precome from Hamitlon’s slit with his thumb.

“What about you, hm?” Alexander chokes out, fixing his hazy gaze on Jefferson. “How long have been wanting me?”

Thomas’ leans up to brush his kiss swollen lips hastily over Alexander’s before answering. “Three years. Every day for, three goddamn years, you utter bastard.” he mutters into his ear, and Alexander feels sure that he’s not just referring to sex, neither was he. Still, the revelation doesn’t keep him from teasing. 

“Aw Thomas!” he squeals, brushing his fingers though the other man's curls. “Pining away like a schoolgirl all this time! You should have said something, we could have come to this conclusion a lot quicker and you wouldn’t have had to go home hard in you pants at the mere thought of meEEE- !” his voice jumps at the end, petering off into a high whine as Thomas choices this exact moment to shift Alexander’s legs over his shoulders and press a finger teasingly to his hole. 

Slowly he pushes the digit in. “For the love of god Alexander, shut up.” 

Hamilton squirms, tries to push himself down at little further, meanwhile Thomas takes his time exploring the soft skin of his inner thigh, working him open at a leisurely pace. 

“Oh you complete ass” Alexander manages though low groans as a second finger is inserted, stretching him. The muscles in his lower belly flutter and jump at every scrap of Jefferson’s coarse stubble against the crease of his thigh. He digs his nails into Thomas’ shoulders. “You’d better not be planning to fuck me raw.”

Jefferson chuckles. “Of course not, I make it a habit to practice safe sex.” he lays a tender kiss to the juncture of his hip, teeth pressing gently to the thin flesh as he flicks his gaze up to meet Alexander’s. 

Alexander in turn huffs. “Then get on with it.” he snaps, and as he does, Jefferson’s skilled finger happen to brush a particularly tender spot inside him and he thrust up, head falling back against the bed. “You’re going to drive me crazy.” he breathes out harshly. 

“Oh darlin” Thomas breaths, dark eyes flashing playfully. “We’re just getting started” With a final, brush of his lips over Alexander’s thigh, he retracts his fingers. Alexander whines at the loss. 

“Stuffs in the top drawer.” Jefferson instructs, leaning back in order to give him room to move. 

Alexander huffs softly, but rolls onto his stomach so he can open the drawer Thomas indicated. He fishes out a condom and bottle of lube, tuning back to Thomas with a triumphant little smirk. 

Jefferson sits back, lets Alexander prep him. Hamilton takes his sweet time doing so, admires his flush length curled up against his stomach. He revels in the needy sounds that spill from Thomas’s lips, like a broken psalm, as he teases him to full height, his deep voice sends shivers down his spine. Once he’s rolled the condom down his shaft, Alexander lays back against the pillows again, his heart hammering with anticipation as Thomas covers him once more, coating his dick with a liberal amount of lube and smearing the rest over Alexander’s hole. His legs tremble as the heat of Jefferson’s cock sides teasingly up his inner thigh. He spreads his knees, giving Thomas the room to finally, finally settle at his hole, one hand coming to rest on the curve of his shoulder. 

“Alexander?” his name comes out like a question, Jefferson meeting his gaze with a hint of uncertainty still swirling behind his blown out pupils. “You're sure you want this?”

Alexander bobs his head enthusiastically. “Yeah I’m sure. I don't think I’ve ever wanted anything this badly before.” he mutters reassuringly, leaning up to seal his words with a long, languid kiss. 

He’s not lying or exaggerating  either. More than freeing himself from the shackles of poverty, more than his yearning to leave his mark, a hand print etched in history that says  _ ‘I was here, I lived, look at all I’ve accomplished, witness me’.  _ More than his debt plan or even that goddamn bill, nothing stacks up, could ever compare to this moment, to the sense of spice scented victory Thomas’ brilliant mouth leaves him with. The way his heart is pounding, pumping fire through his veins that scorches his very insides and consumes him from within, he’s never felt so utterly overcome. It’s like the flame that heats their debaets, except fanned to twice the height and blazing white hot against Alexander’s skin. And when Thomas kisses back, nips his lower lip and slowly starts to slide in, his whole body burns. He hisses at the slight discomfort of being stretched and the fullness he feels as Thomas pushes in farther, it's been so long since he'd be with a man, far too long. Thomas is right there to comfort him, peppering his neck with kisses and little nips here and there to distract him until the pain subsides and leaves Alexander panting and utterly unsatisfied. 

“Can you move, I’m not made of glass.” he tries to snap,  but it sounds more like a strangled moan. “You’re not gonna break me. Come ooooon”” he wriggles his hips to emphasis his point. 

“So needy” Thomas grunts, shifting to a more comfortable position that allows him more leverage, hands coming to rest on Hamilton’s hips. But he doesn’t tease any more, instead he starts a relentless pace that leaves Alexander struggling for each breath.

For a while, only their breathy moans and the slap of sticky skin on skin fill the air. Thomas’ name falls from Alexander’s lips like some perverse prayer, which seems fitting because the way Jefferson is driving into him feels like how those religious fanatics describe finding god. Hamilton’s never been especially spiritual, but he’d gladly convert to this religion.

It’s almost comical, how easy this is, how easy it was to get here. That they could have gotten here a hell of a lot sooner if they’d just stop bickering for five seconds and really seen each other, taken a moment to realize what was happening.That beneath the unadulterated loathing and pointless squabbling, something was brewing, more fierce the  hate and more powerful than simple lust. All it would have taken was a word, a brush of fingers, or a glare that held just a little too long and Alexander would have gladly dropped to his knees. It’s so much easier to admit to himself now that Thomas is drawing groan after breathless groan from his mouth, that he’d secretly hoped that one of the sparks that fly so freely between them would catch one day, ignite and Thomas would pin him to the wall of his office and take him as beautifully as he is now. If only Alexander were more perceptive, he thinks with a soft smile, it could have saved them both a great deal of trouble. 

Thomas pulls out, almost entirely, then slams back in, effectively knock any semblance of thought from Alexander’s mind. His back arches off the bed and he moans, far louder than he’d care to admit, taking up Jefferson’s previous mantra. Breathless gasps and desperate phrases like, _ please, _ and  _ fuck yes, _ and  _ more, _ and  _ Thomas _ . Hamilton’s hands scramble to find purchase on Thomas’ sweat slick back. 

“You’re so beautiful, you know.” Thomas breathes hotly in his ear, before ghosting his lips across his throat. 

Alexander shivers, the heat and pressure in his belly starting to grow unbearable. “I’ve been told.” he response with a breathy laugh.

Thomas pauses his relentless attack on his jaw, pulling back just enough to properly look him in the eyes. His expression is so open and raw that it makes Alexander's breath hitch in his chest. It’s adoring if not a little awestruck and a little desperate.

“No, you really are. You don’t know how hard it was for me, god Alexander, I mean,  your eyes, they’re so fucking big.” Jefferson strokes his fingers through Alexander hair reverently . “I tried so hard to pretend I didn’t want you” he presses his forehead to his shoulder, a grunt falling from his lips. “Look where that got me.”  

“I would have said yes.” Alexander mutters. “If you’d said something. I wouldn’t have hesitated.”

Jefferson shakes his head, curls bouncing with every snap of his hips. “I didn’t want to be just another one night stand” he gasps.

Then he moans, clearly close, Alexander is too. His long fingers come to wrap around Alexander’s dick and he strokes in time with his frantic thrusts. Hamilton’s back bows up into the contact. It only takes one, two, three more pumps of his fist before the tension in his stomach burst and Alexander is spilling over Thomas’ hand with a cry. He spams for a moment, clenching tightly around Thomas, who comes with a  grunt and  _ ‘Alexander!’  _ on his tongue. 

Jefferson gives a few more half hearted thrusts as they ride out the aftershocks of their orgasms, then he carefully slides out and collapses beside Alexander,  his chest heaving. They stay like that for a moment, both utterly blissed  out and gulping down air, Hamilton listening to the sound of his heartbeat raging in his ears. Warm satisfaction buzzes in his veins, sated, his limbs feel heavy and useless. He doesn’t even have the energy to sweep his damp hair off his forehead or wipe away the come drying to his stomach. 

Eventually, Thomas pushes himself into a sitting position, Hamilton can see him peel off the condom and tie if off, before moving to clamber off the bed. Alexander’s hand shoots out, fingers wrapping weakly around Jefferson’s wrist, but it’s enough to make him pause.

“Don’t” he mutters, exhaustion already settling deep in his bones. “Don’t-”

“Shhh.” Thomas leans over and places a kiss to his temple. “I’ll be right back.”

He gets off the bed and steps out of Hamilton’s line of sight, only to return moments later with wearing a pair of boxers and holding a damp washcloth. Gently, he starts to clean off Alexander’s front, swiping the warm cloth carefully over his flaccid cock. 

“You don’t have to take care of me” Alexander states, watching Jefferson through bleary eyes.

Thomas doesn't meet his gaze. “I know”

He finishes, chucks the rag into a hamper and crawls back onto the mattress beside Hamilton. Alexander instinctively curls into the warmth of Jefferson’s tall frame, his head coming to rest in the cradle of his shoulder as the other man loops an arm, almost absentmindedly, around his middle.

“You’re not” he mumbles into Thomas’ chest, eyelids starting to droop.

“What?” Jefferson asks softly.

Alexander nuzzles his neck. “You’re not just a one night stand.”

Jefferson pets his head gingerly. “Go to sleep Alexander.”


	9. When You Wake Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some peace at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god guys, I can't believe this is the last chapter! I'm sad, but satisfied. I feel like this turned out really well and I'm quite proud of myself. Thank you all some much as well! Every comment and every kudos brightened my day just a little bit, I'm glad I could make something you enjoy. This is hardly the end tho, have a TON more fic ideas headed your way so be on the look out! And of course, thank you so much Ham-for-Ham and Clebimebi! This story wouldn't be half as great without the both of you <3

Alexander groans as the pleasantly warm surface his head has been resting on shifts beneath his cheek. He nuzzles into it, only for the warmth to shift farther, until it slips from under him and his face flops against cool sheets. The sudden coolness cuts through the heavy haze of sleep that previously enveloped him and prompts Hamilton to peel open his eyes. The shape of Thomas’ back is the first thing that greets him, blocking all else from few as he shuffles onto his side.

“Thomas?” Alexander mumbles groggily, bring a hand up to scrub the sleep from his eyes as he does.

Jefferson casts a glance at him over his shoulder. “Oh shit, I didn’t mean to wake you. Go on back to sleep, sweetheart”

Feeling slightly more awake now, Alexander scoots over the bed towards Thomas and drapes himself over his side, resting his chin in the curve of his neck so he can see over him. Jefferson has his phone in one hand and a pen in the other, the weather app is open. 

He blinks against the bright light of the screen “What are you doing?” he asks.

Jefferson jots some numbers down on a little pad that’s sitting on the bedside table. “Nothing” he sets the pen and phone down on top. Then he rolls onto his back, draws Alexander to his chest and presses a hurried kiss to the top of his head. “Please, go back to sleep.”

Alexander nods, though he usually has trouble falling back asleep once he’s up, the motion of Jefferson’s chest as he breathes and the muffled beating of his heart in his ear makes his eyelids droop. His body slackens, and not a moment later Hamilton surrenders himself back to the warm embrace of unconsciousness.

The next time he wakes, Thomas is still sleeping, still cradling Alexander protectively to his side. A warm, gooey feeling oozes from his heart as he stares at his bedmate, spreading through his chest and seeping down into his toes and the tips of his fingers. A fond, sleepy smile works its way onto Alexander’s lips. 

The slightest glimmer of sunlight is peeking its way through the sheer curtains of the window opposite the bed, the beam falling over Jefferson’s form. He looks peaceful as he sleeps, from this position, curled beneath his shoulder, Alexander can see his lashes fanned out gracefully over his cheeks and can trace his gaze across the arches of his parted lips. The corners of his mouth are turned up ever slightly and that makes him smile just a little wider. His hair quite literally ‘poofs’ out against the pillow, creating an ethereal, gravity defying mass of loose ebony curls around his head.  Adorable, is the first word that comes to mind and an old, wicked little voice tells him that a picture of this scene would make for excellent blackmail later. A better, louder voice tells him to kiss those perfect lips. Alexander settles for brushing his own over the nearest bit of skin he can reach.

The minute his lips graze against Jefferson’s shoulder he starts to stir.  He shifts a little as he starts to wake, arms flexing around Alexander and a muffled groan leaves his mouth. Then his head lolls to the left and he cracks open one bleary eye. 

Hamilton places another kiss to his neck. “Rise ‘n shine sleeping beauty.” 

His tone is playful, but the moment Thomas’ gaze landed on him, all dregs of sleepiness fall away. His deep brown eyes go wide, like he’s genuinely surprised to see Alexander there, clinging to his side.

“You stayed” it comes out almost as a question, soft, so as not to break the fragile stillness of the morning.

Hamilton blinks. “Well yeah.” he then slings his left arms over Jefferson’s chest. “I told you I wasn’t going anywhere”

Thomas pauses, takes a moment to let his words sink in. He then swoops over Alexander, curls a trembling hand against the back of his head and presses a tender kiss to his mouth. It taste different in the calm morning air, sweeter.  

When they pull apart, he slots his nose against Hamilton’s and smiles softly. “I’m glad you did.” he mummers.

Alexander grins cheekily up at him. “But I mean can you blame me? Your bed's really comfortable. What the hell is the thread count on these sheets?” he glosses a hand over the covers. “They’re very nice.”

Thomas glowers at him, lets his hands fall away and immediately roll onto his back once more. “Fuck you.” he grumbles and Alexander laughs, crawling back over him.

He starts peppering little kisses over his pouting jaw. “Mmmm” he hums, the coarse stubble on Jefferson’s chin pricks his lips in the most delightful way. “We already did that, and don’t get me wrong, that was- awesome, but I think I’d rather like to fuck  _ you _ this time.”

The way Jefferson’s breath stumbles in his chest makes him smile a little wider. He continues his lazy path down the column of the other’s throat, sneaking lower and lower until he’s mouthing over his chest.

“So, are we just gonna lay in bed all day ooor-” lower he goes, pushing back the blankets so he can get easier access to his stomach. “Cause I’m not really the lazy type, but if you wanted to, I’m sure I could find  _ some  _ way to occupy myself.” Alexander is just about to lay kisses over his hips when Thomas threads his fingers through his hair and gently pulls him back up.

“Wait Alexander.” he mutters

Hamilton whips his gaze upward, suddenly uneasy. He’d thought that after last night, Thomas was alright with the intimateness, but maybe he’s still having some difficulties with all the emotional stuff. “What, what’s wrong” he asks, the slightest hint of anxiousness in his voice.

“We should eat first.” Thomas says plainly.

Alexander stares at him. “Are you  kidding me? I’m about to suck your dick and you’re thinking about food?” 

Thomas tosses a blatant eye roll Hamilton’s way. “Eating is important.”

“So is the fact that we’re half naked in bed together on a Sunday, totally naked in my case.” he shuffles even closer, letting his fingers trail carefully across Jefferson’s toned chest. “Come on. Come on,  _ Thomas _ , please. Pretty please let me suck your dick?” he whines.

Thomas just shakes his head  “Alexander, if you love me, you’ll wait until after we eat.” He smirks down at him, though, the smile does feel a bit tense. 

So Alexander just huffs and begrudgingly slips off him. “Fine, fine okay.” he mutters bitterly.

However he is rewarded with a delightfully loving kiss from Jefferson, that also happens to contain a pleasant bit of tongue. When they seperate, Thomas seems more relaxed. 

He strokes a hand through the tangled mess that is Alexander’s hair. “Thank you” he breaths “Now go take a shower, you reek of sex.”

Hamilton splutters. “Look who’s talking! Unless, are you going to be taking a shower too?” he wriggles his eyebrows in what he hopes is a seductive manner.

Jefferson chuckles, slowly extracting himself from Alexander’s hold and shifting into a sitting position. “No, I’m going to go and cook us a delicious breakfast.”

“Spoilsport” Alexander mutters into the pillows as he watches Thomas slide off the bed.  

He pulls on a pair of pajama bottoms then exits the room, leaving Hamilton alone, with only the rapidly fading heat from his body to keep him company. And still, he smiles dopily up at the ceiling. This morning is already shaping up to be such an unexpected surprise. Alexander had always assumed that if he and Jefferson did hook up it would inevitably end one of two ways. Either they would fuck, rough and dirty and Jefferson would pound the desire right out of him, he’d walk away satisfied and never needing to wonder how his lips felt on his searing flesh again, and that would be the end of it. The other conclusion was that the  flickering flame he’d felt last night would consume him, burn him to nothing but a pile of smoldering charcoal,  and while Jefferson would leave the incident unscathed, he’d turn to ash. Neither of these had come to pass however and Alexander is left to bask in the warm radiance of the sun after the storm, feeling more at ease then he has in years. It’s a pleasant, albeit unexpected turn of events and Hamilton can’t complain. Even as he rolls out of Jefferson’s ridiculously comfortable bed and trudges towards the connected bathroom. 

He speeds through his shower, the lack of a department store’s array of shampoos in Jefferson’s bathroom comes as quite a shock, there’s only a lone bottle of really creamy, coconut shampoo and some conditioner that feels way too heavy. After he’s scrubbed away the musky stench of sex and the last remnants of sleepiness, Alexander shuffles back into the bedroom and sets about looking for his clothes. His socks and shoes have been kicked beneath the bed, his shirt flung across the room, lays in a heap in the far corner. He finds his boxer briefs and sweatpants beside the nightstand and quickly pulls them on, before snatching up his shirt and pulling it over his head. As he reaches into his pocket for his phone, so he can check the time, and maybe apologize to Laurens for leaving so suddenly the night before, his fingertips brush against the stiff parchment of his love letter. In the whirlwind of passion he’d been unwittingly swept up in last night, it had completely slipped his mind. He smiles softly to himself as he makes to leave the room, he’ll have to give it to Thomas later. Hopefully the bastard won’t try to proof read this one.

He can smell breakfast being cooked even as he takes the stairs down, two at a time, bacon has a rather distinct aroma. After a little meandering about aimlessly in search of the smells source, Alexander finally stumbles upon the  kitchen. Thomas stands at the stove, bare from the waist up with his back towards the door and a spatula in hand.  Hamilton crosses to him and treads his arms around his waist, snuggling up to the strong back he vividly remembers clutching at as if his life depended on it.

“We might have to make this a more regular thing, if you promise to cook shirtless for me after” he quips, locking his arms around Jefferson’s middle.

The taller man makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat and mutters something that sounds uncannily like  _ ‘I’m not your maid’,  _ to which Alexander chuckles.

“Oh don’t pout you big baby, it’s actually an insanely  attractive quality.” he presses a chaste kiss to Thomas’ shoulder. “What are you making?”

“Just bacon and eggs.” Thomas replies. “But I can make omelets if you’d prefer that.”

Hamilton hums softly against his skin, not really paying attention anymore, he’s far more focused on other things he’s like to have in his mouth at the moment. “Whatever you want dear.” he’s started nipping along the back of Jefferson’s neck, the parts he can reach at least. Fuck tall people, right?

Thomas in turn, shudders against his mouth. “I swear Alexander, if you make me burn this bacon, you’re going to be the one that eats it.” his shoulders flex.

“Oh? Am I distracting, Thomas?” he teases.

“Very” Thomas growls back.

He nibbles at Thomas’ shoulder. “Come oooon, you said three years right? That means we have three years worth  of mind blowing sex to make up for.”

“After breakfast, Alexander.” Jefferson gently reminds him.

Silences falls over them, the little, cheerful kitchen quiet aside for the sizzling of the bacon and the distant sound of early morning commuters. It doesn’t feel stiff or awkward like Hamilton thought it might. Honestly, despite how borderline perfect everything is going, he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for either one, or both of them to come to their senses and wall of detestation they’d built all those years ago to re-erect itself.  This still feels unreal, a week ago, Hamilton wouldn’t have believed there was a force on Earth that would get him to willingly curl himself around Thomas fucking Jefferson, and yet here he is, standing barefoot in his kitchen, arms draped around his waist. Whatever this is, whatever this peace the two of them have found is called, be it attraction, affection or even, god forbid, love, Alexander doesn’t want it to end, he hopes it never does. It’s been so long since he’s felt like this,  warm and safe and content, it’s been even longer for Thomas and the thought makes him squeeze just a bit tighter. 

Hamilton presses his forehead squarely between Thomas’ shoulders. “I  missed this. Not just the sex, but like, this, the domestic stuff. It’s nice.”

Jefferson stiffens and doesn’t say anything for  long time. Alexander can guess what he’s thinking about, that’s why he’s not surprised when Thomas is drawing in a breath to speak.

“Alexander-” he begins softly, and Alexander doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing his name on Thomas’ lips, no matter the context. “I don’t think I- Martha was-  very special to me.” he continues. “I’ve tried so hard to keep people from getting close to me, to keep you from getting close to me. I’ve  been afraid that if I let anyone in,  I might stop loving her.  I’m not sure I’ll ever stop loving her. ”

“I know” Alexander mutters “I don’t think I’ll ever not love Eliza either, but I do know that wounds heal.”  He starts to lay tender kisses over the length of Jefferson’s spine. “Take your time, love, I can learn to be patient.”

“Jesus” Jefferson breath. “So quick witted with those pretty words of yours, aren't you.”  

Alexander nuzzles into him further. “Actually, I often find myself at a loss for them where you are concerned, Thomas.” then “Oh- before I forget again.” reluctantly, he unwinds an arm from around Jefferson so he can reach into his pocket and pull out his letter. Carefully he passes it to him. “This was the whole reason I came over here last night.”

“If it’s another bill Alexander, I’m going to legitimately kick your ass.” Thomas warns.

Hamilton scoffs. “Just read it.”

With sigh, Jefferson unfolds it and beings to read. It doesn’t take him long, Alexander can tell  by the way his breath hitches near the end, it’s about the reaction he was expecting. What he wasn’t expecting however, was for Thomas to whip around and slam him to the island in the middle of the room and promptly drop to his knees, the letter falling from his grasp as he pins Alexander's hips down. Immediately he’s mouthing over the shape of his cock through his thick sweatpants.

“I thought you said after breakfast.” Hamilton gasps, a hand coming to tangle in Thomas’ hair. 

“Screw it.”  he breathes. He hooks his fingers under the elastic waistband and tugs the offending article down to Alexander’s ankles. “What was it you said? Three years? Well then, we’d better get on with it.”

No, this wasn’t what he was expecting, but Alexander is more than happy to let Thomas suck his brains out through his dick.

Needless to say, the bacon does not survive the ordeal. The two retire back to the bedroom and  Alexander finds himself being forced to eat the literal pieces of charcoal.

“It’s your own damn fault for distracting me.” Thomas sneers,  chewing carefully on his own perfectly cooked strips, refusing to share. 

Once they finish and set their plates aside, he and Alexander are back at each other, seemingly unable to keep their hands to themselves. Fingers run fervently though hair as they suck and nip marks across each other's skin, so deep and vivid that they’ll still have to be hidden under button ups and suit jackets come Monday. They kiss until they’re light headed and oxygen deprived, and Alexander rides Jefferson hard, until they’re both too blissed out to do much more then lay there and whisper softly to one another. 

Hamilton trails the pads of his fingers tentatively across Jefferson’s shoulder, only by the grace of god does he manage to keep his heavy eyes open, but he doesn’t want to miss a single second of his lover’s post-coital expression. Thomas, with cloudy eyes and lazy smile playing on his lips, the deep flush just beginning to fade from his cheeks and neck, the slightest sheen of sweat still covering his skin. It also helps that he’s got one hand tucked beneath his head while the other draws little, nonsensical shapes on Alexander's bare back. 

“When did you first know?” Thomas asks softly.

Alexander shifts himself close enough to drape his arms loosely around his waist, tangling their legs together. “Know what?”

“That you’re ‘ _ a man so deeply and above all else in love _ ’ with me?” Jefferson teases, fingers trailing up to play with Hamilton’s hair. 

Alexander simply hums in response, his eyelids fluttering for a moment, because the sensation of the other man's hands in his hair is his idea of heaven. “ ‘M not sure exactly, It just sorta- happened I guess. But, I think it was when you started openin’ up, and you didn’t leave me to die in the rain so, that definitely helped.” he smiles sleepy up at Thomas. “What about you? When did you _ ‘know _ ’”

“January eighth, twenty thirteen.” he replies, without missing a beat. “It was the night of the winter gala, you were wearing a tux that actually fit you for once.”

Alexander chuckles awkwardly. “Jesus, I don’t even remember that, how the hell do you?”

Jefferson shrugs before continuing. “ You walked in with Eliza, and you made your announcement about the orphanage the two of you were going to fund. You gave a speech about it. It wasn’t any different from any of your other speeches.  I’m not really sure what it was about that night, maybe it was the liquor, or how sharp you looked in the tux, or maybe it was that I actually sat and listened to you for once instead of focusing on trying to get a word in  but, I don’t know.” he shakes his head slightly. “You were so passionate about it, it was like you were blazing across the night sky. The way you were talking, proclaimin’ really, with fire on your tongue, I couldn’t tear my gaze away. Then John Adams said somethin’ ‘bout you only doing it for the good PR so you broke his nose  and got escorted out by security. “

Hamilton frowns “That part I remember.” he grumbles. “I vaguely remember you laughing as they dragged me out.”

Thomas lets loose a breathy chuckle and leans in to press a kiss to Alexander bruised lips. “That’s ‘cause the way you were kicking and screaming was adorable.”

He simply laughs,and when the sound dies down, the two lay in pleasant silence for a long moment. 

Alexander brings his free hand up to cup Jefferson’s jaw. “How long do you think the honeymoon phase is going to last?” he asked, watching his thumb intently as it traces the curve of the other man’s lip. 

“Oh, we’ll be over it soon enough.” Thomas sighs. “I’m sure we’ll be back at each other’s throats by the end of the week.”

A sly smile starts to spread over Alexander ‘s lips. “At each other’s throats, now there’s a nice thought. Kinda like this?” he stretches up to trace paths between the bruises that dot Thomas’ neck with his tongue. His Thomas, he thinks fondly. 

Beside him, Jefferson makes a soft, appreciative sound. “Not exactly what I had in mind but I won’t spoil your fun, this time. But don’t think I’ll go easy on you come Monday, Hamilton.” Alexander chooses to suck at a particularly dark bruise instead of answering and Thomas sort of whines in response. 

He smirks into his neck. “Well, if we do get into it, now I know how to shut you up.”

And then Hamilton is pushing Thomas onto his back and slowly kissing his way down his chest, previous tenderness replaced with brightly burning lust and the singular thought that he’s finally going to know what Thomas tastes like on his tongue. It doesn’t take him long to reach his desired destination, the boundaries of clothing having already been removed and Jefferson’s soft noises of encouragement spur him lower and lower, until Alexander’s breath is ghosting across his half hard cock. He mouths over the shape of it for a moment, already committing the heat of the flesh pressed to his lips to memory before he takes the length into his mouth. Thomas instantly bucks up into the feeling and makes a sound that Alexander thinks might have been meant to be his name, but it broke off into a moan at the end. Sounding more like. “Alexaaaaah-!” than “Alexander”.  His eyes flutter shut briefly as he revels in the fact that he can make Thomas come undone with such ease.  He steadies himself on an elbow, his other hand gently caressing Jefferson’s hip and envelops the whole of him with his mouth.

Beneath him, Thomas shudders, threading fingers into his hair, gathering it at the nape of his neck as he tries very hard, it would seem, not to rock up and fuck him hoarse.. 

“Christ Alexander.” he murmurs, and Alexander raises his gaze to watch his lover’s chest heave. “How long have you imagined this exact moment, I wonder? How many times have you thought about getting on your knees for me?”

Alexander moans around him. Far too many times.

Thomas strokes his fingers through his hair. “Have you thought about it at work? During all those long sleepless nights at your computer?” Hamilton runs his tongue across his length and his breath catches in his throat. “Did you ever touch yourself?”

He nods, can’t help but nod around Jefferson’s cock. Fuck this beautiful bastard and his never ceasing taunts. Determined to shut him up for good, Alexander surges forward until his nose is pressed to Thomas’ pelvis, forces his jaw to relax and swallows.

Jefferson’s back bows off the mattress and a strangled- ‘fuck-!” falls from his lips. His grip in Hamilton’s hair tightens to the point of stinging and his cock twitches against his tongue, any further comments quickly drowning in the incoming waves of obscene moans.

Warmth blossoms though Alexander’s chest, he loves this feeling , of being able to assert just a little power over a man who, for the most part, seems to domineer in the bedroom. But more than that, he loves the little groans and soft sighs Thomas makes, loves the feeling of finally having him in his mouth and being able to express his affections in this way. It’s nice to be able to attend to Thomas, make it clear that he’s here for more than his own gratification, and even if he gags ever so slightly the next time he takes Thomas to the back of his throat, there’s no where else Alexander would rather be than here in bed with him. It’s blissful and even this, their third (fourth?) time in the throws of passion, is still as exhilarating as the first. Alexander hopes he never loose the warm, bubbly feeling he gets in his chest when he sees Thomas like this. Totally open and laid bare for him, head thrown back against the pillows. He closes his eyes and flicks his tongue across Thomas’ slit.  It’s like a dream, he can practically hear the bells. 

He can hear bells actually, the stiff, electronic chime of them in his ears gives him pause. He didn’t even know Jefferson had a doorbell. 

Above him Thomas groans. “Shit” he mutters as he untwists his fingers from Hamilton’s scalp. “It’s probably James.”

Alexander pulls off of Thomas with an obscene and wet  _ pop,  _ and lays his  cheek against his thigh. A wicked little grin spreads over his face. “You should probably get that then, shouldn’t you?”

The bell chimes again. Thomas drags a hand through his matted hair and down over his face, he’s still painfully hard. “Fuck you” 

“Later!” Alexander says, far too cheerily. “Go answer your door. You don’t want to be a bad host do you?” he rolls off of Jefferson. His own erection bobs against his lower belly. 

Grumbling and still more than a little out of breath, Thomas swings his legs over the side of the bed and staggers to his feet. 

Alexander can’t help but laugh as he watches the other man struggle into a pair of boxers from his spot on the bed. “I’ll wait for you!” he calls. Thomas shoots him a death glare over his shoulder as he exits. 

Once he’s gone, Alexander rolls towards the nightstand, where he’d set his phone right next to Thomas’ and unlocks it. He has one message from ‘The Revolutionary Set’ group chat, it’s from John.

_ [John: Alright  I feel I’ve waited the appropriate amount of time. Whats going on Alex did you guys hook up???] _

He smiles as he types out his response. 

[That boy’s all mine!]

_ [Mulligan: Gross :p] _

_ [John: Hush Herc] _

_ [Lafayette: This is the only valid reason there is to be woken up at four in the morning] _

_ [Lafayette: Chapeau, mon ami!!! I am so glad for the two of you!] _

[ Merci!]

_ [John: Aw yeah! Get some Alex!] _

He sets his phone down before things can get to crazy. Laying half hard in Thomas’ bed isn’t the best time to be regaling his new found romance to his friends, He’ll tell them all about it later, preferably before Laf gets back from France so he won’t kill him for specifically going against his order of no sex until he returns. Somehow Alexander’s sure he’ll forgive him though.

However, the bed is big and lonely without Thomas beside him, so Hamilton throws back on his sweats and leaves the room in search of Jefferson. 

He finds him speaking through the cracked front door to a rather concerned looking James Madison, only his head sticking out from behind the wood as he tries to conceal the rest of his body. Smirking, Alexander tiptoes his way closer. 

“Really Jemmy, it’s alright, you don’t need to worry about me anymore.” he hears Jefferson mutter in a tense tone. 

Madison stares at him. “Thomas what aren't you telling me?” then he squints “Are those- do you have bruises on your neck?”

“He sure does ‘Jemmy’!” Alexander sings, wrapping his arms around Jefferson’s waist and effectively pushing him out from behind the the door.

Madison gapes at the two of them like a fish, his usual cool demeanor replaced with wide eyed shock. His mouth works for a moment but no sound comes out. 

Thomas, for what it’s worth, glares at Hamilton over his shoulder, and Alexander only snuggles deeper into his back. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“The bed’s boring without you.” Alexander shugs.

Just outside the door, Madison coughs loudly into his fist, drawing their attention back onto him, he looks incredibly uncomfortable. It’s fucking hysterical. “Well, um, congratulations I- I suppose Thomas” he nods stiffly “Hamilton. I’ll let you uh, get back- to it.” and with that he scurries down the front steps, throwing flabbergasted looks back at them until Thomas shuts the door with a snap.

Hamilton chuckles. “Did you see his face?” That’s about all he can get out before Thomas is pinning him to the wall.

“Now that was a little rude don’t you think?” Jefferson murmurs, leaning down to trace his favorite path across Alexander's skin. 

Alexander rolls his eyes. “Please, don’t tell me you’re embarrassed of me.” he stomach twists. “You’re not embarrassed of me, right?”

Thomas pauses his ministrations, pulling back to meet his gaze, Alexander hopes he doesn’t look as uneasy as he feels. His thumb skirts over Alexander’s cheek. “No, of course I’m not fucking embarrassed of you.” he says, gaze all hard and serious. He then places a gentle kiss to his lips. “I just didn’t think it was the best time to bring it up, what with there being more blood in my dick than my brain at the moment” he grinds into Alexander to prove his point. 

Hamilton sighs in relief, the sound quickly turning into a chuckle. He drapes his arm around Thomas’ neck. “Those are my boxers you’re wearing.”

“Oh yeah?” Jefferson quirks a brow tauntingly, his dark eyes swirl with unspoken adoration. “Come get ‘em then”

  
  


A few months later, fall is just starting to descend on DC, the leaves losing their green hues and taking up vibrant shades of orange and red. Crisp winds pull them from the trees and decorate the streets with them as the temperature drops with each passing day. Thomas wants to take them to Monticello for the holidays. 

“It’s beautiful there in autumn, the whole countryside is set ablaze, and the orchard is just about ripe this time of year” he tells Alexander. Hamilton’s sure he just wants an excuse to get him out of the city and all to himself for a week.  But for now, the treasury secretary is huddled under the copious number of blankets on Jefferson’s bed. Thomas slides in beside him, passing a steaming mug of tea his way, which Alexander eagerly excepts. 

“It’s fucking freezing in your room.” he comments, shifting close to Thomas so as to leech off some of his body heat. 

Thomas sighs. “It’d probably be warmer if some asshole hadn’t thrown a rock through my window.”

“Right...” Alexander’s gaze trails over to the window, the one still sporting a horrid, jagged hole in the center. “You should get that fixed.”

“You gonna pay for it?” Jefferson teases.

Alexander lays his head on his shoulder. “Actually, I think I like it. It gives the room character.”

Thomas chuckles and mutters “You’re impossible.” in his ear before swooping over and pressing a vicious kiss to Alexander’s lips. 

Are things perfect between them? Hardly. They still squabble and bicker. Alexander still pesters the hell out of Jefferson and Jefferson still berates his work. He’s still too goddam tall and every so often Hamilton wants to punch out his perfect fucking teeth, but somehow they work. Regardless of the vicious way they go after each other in cabinet meetings, Alexander still sneaks over with a pizza and Jefferson provides the wine and they fall asleep together in a heap on the sofa every saturday night. It’s not perfect, but perfect would be to easy for the two of them.


End file.
